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^bomas  W.  Ibanbtorb 


Xos  Bngeles,  Cal. 
San^erson^nmbitten  Company 

ICO  I 


PEEFAOE. 


There  are  certain  poems — some  of  them  rather  lengthy 
and  some  of  them  very  brief — which,  because  they  have 
touched  the  universal  heart,  have  become  universal  fa- 
vorites. To  gather  together  in  one  small  volume  the 
Favorite  Poems  from  English  and  American  authors  has 
been  a  pleasant  task.  The  editor  has  been  very  anxious 
in  the  compilation  of  these  pages  not  to  omit  any  of 
those  gems  of  poetic  beauty  which  are  universally  ad- 
mired-, at  the  same  time  he  has  ventured  to  introduce 
a  few  of  the  efforts  of  modern  singers,  which  bid  fair  to 
become  universal  favorites,  all  in  good  time. 

We  have,  all  of  us — even  the  most  practical  and  pro- 
saic— a  vein  of  poetry  somewhere  in  our  nature,  and  a 
book  such  as  this,  is  just  the  companion  we  need  to  make 
glad  the  quiet  hours  of  life.  The  aim  of  the  editor  all 
along  has  been  to  present  the  public  with  a  volume  that 
should  answer  the  mood  of  the  poet  Longfellow,  ex- 
\)resied  In  the  following  memorable  stanzas: 

"  Read  from  some  humble  poet, 

Whose  songs  gush  from  his  heart 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer. 

Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start. 
Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet, 

The  restless  pulse  of  care: 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer." 


COISTTEISTTS. 


Abide  with  Me IV.  H.  Lyte 996 

America W.C.  Bryant 66 

4  NNiE  Laurie A  nonymotts 38 

A.ITUD  Lang  Svne Robert  Burns 17S 

A  Canadian  Boat  Song Thomas  Moore 146 

A  Sermon  for  the  Sisters Irwin  Russell 294 

A  Song  of  Easter Celia  Tkaxter 219 

Barbara  Frietchie ./.  G.  Whittier 177 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic Julia  Ward  Howe 137 

Beautiful  Hands A  ntnymous 37 

Bernardo  Del  Carpio Mrs.  Hemans 244 

Bktter  in  the  Morning Leander  S.  Coan 252 

Beyond Anonymous 68 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine Hon.  Mrs.  Norton 33 

Bonos  of  Affection L.  E.  Landon 65 

Boston  Hymn -../?.  W.  Emerson a8 

Clear  the  Way Charles  Mackay 54 

Could  Wk  But  Know C.  E.  Sttdman J84 

Come  Into  THE  Garden,  Maud.  ., Lord  Tennyson 45 

Creed  of  the  Bells George  IV.  Bungay 223 

Corfew  Must  Not  Ring  To-night Rose  Hariwick  Thgrpe 95 

Ellen  Adair Elmo 59 

Entertaining  Her  Big  Sister's  Beau Brei  Harte 82 

Evelyn  Hope Robert  Browning 104 

Excelsior H.  W.  Longfellow 188 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray Thomas  Hood 75 

Farmer  John .J.  T.  Trowbridge 115 

Fareweel  Alexander  Maclagan 261 

Forest  Hymn , W.C.  Bryant u 

G<H)  Blsss  Our  Fatherland Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 53 

God  is  Lovb Sir  John  Bowring 157 

God's  Acre W.  H.  Longfellow 185 

Good  King  Wencesles Anonymous 291 

Hamlkt's  Soliloquy W.  Shaksjieare 78 

Happiness .John  Keble 104 

Haste  Not!    Rest  Not!  ./.  W.  Von  Goethe 306 

Hebrew  Hymn Sir  Walter  Scott 273 

Helvellyn Sir  Walter  Scott 138 

Hiawatha's  Wooing H.W.  Longfellow 15 

Hohenlinden Thomas  Canffihell 89 


6  CONTENTS. 

HoRATios  ....   Lord  Macaulay 004 

How  THEY  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 

TO  AlX Robert  Browning 130 

HvMN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTIAN Mrs.  Hemans 262 

Hymn  to  Christ  . .  .■ Wade  Robinson 339 

Hymn  to  the  Night H.  W.  Longfellow 191 

If  that  High  World Lord  Byron 308 

Intimations  of  Immortality R.  H.  Dana 55 

IvRY Lord  Macaulay 185 

I  Wonder A  nonyinous 66 

Jenny  Kissed  Me Leigh  Hunt 106 

Jim Bret  Harte 56 

Jim  Bludso Col.  John  Hay 7a 

John  Gilpin William  Cowper 195 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines E.  C.  Stedman 959 

Laurence Rossiter  Johnson 93 

Lead,  KiNBLY  Light Cardinal  Ne-wman 114 

Life  George  Herbert a66 

LmXE  Breeches Col.  John  Hay 135 

LlTTLK  Goldenhair Anonynwus iiaS 

Little  Mattie .   Elizabeth  B.  Browning 35 

Lttle  Phil Mrs.  Henry  Rick 147 

Little  Tyrant Anonynwus  36 

Love's  Farewell  Anonymous 269 

Makin'  an  Editor  Outen  o'  Him Will  M.  Carleton 314 

Majesty  in  Misery King  Charles  the  First  ....  375 

Mary  Ann A rthurj.  Munby Res 

Maud  MOller .J.  G.  Whittier 49 

Mother's  Litany  by  the  Sick-bed  Oi*  Her  Child,  ^fri-.  Hemans «i46 

My  Creed Alice Cary ftiiz 

My  Mother's  Picture W.  Cowper 99 

My  Presence  Shall  Go  With  Thee Fairelie  Thornton 243 

My  Times  are  in  Thy  Hand Anna  L.  Waring lao 

Nancy .John  A.  Eraser, Jr 955 

Nigger  Mighty  Happy .J.  A.  Macon 180 

Night Robert  Southey 190 

Now  and  Then Elnw 840 

Of  Books Ada  Cranakan 304 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night Thomas  Moore 153 

Only  a  Curl Elizabeth  B.  Browning ....  350 

Our  Ernest Elmo 288 

Over  the  River Nancy  Woodbury  Priest  . . .  257 

Only  One  Life Horatijcs  Bonar 58 

Patience   Henry  Burton 305 

Philuda  and  Corydon N.  Breton 107 

Pictures  of  Memory A  lice  Cary  313 

Plighted Mrs.  Craik 298 

PoEST O.  W.  Holnut 303 


CONTENTS,  7 

5-«AVER Lord  Tennyson 30a 

RETROsrECTlON Lard  Tennyson s36 

Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells Lord  Tennyson 98 

Rise,  Heart  ;  Thy  Lord  ts  Risen George  Herbert 993 

Seaside  Thoughts Bernard  Barton »2a 

Shbridan's  Ridb  . .  T.  Buchanan  Read 9 

ScoTai  Hymn Anonymous a^S 

Song  of  Spkujg Edward  Voul 140 

Song  of  thb  Brook Lord  Tennyson 164 

Speak  to  Us,  Lord Eimo «6o 

Spring Lord  Tennyson 369 

Thanatopsis W.  C.  Bryant 90 

The  Beautiful  Land  of  Nod Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  «64 

The  Bells Edgar  Allan  Pee 149 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray F.  M.  Finch 133 

The  Best  Thing  in  thb  World A  nonymous 12 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs Thomas  Hoed 117 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore /.  Wolfe 59 

The  Burial  of  Moses C.  Frances  A lexander i«3 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade , Lord  Tennyson 182 

The  Children's  Hour H.  W.  Longfellov/ 43 

The  Closing  Scene T.  Buchanan  Read 310 

The  Coming  of  Christ Jeremy  Tayler 272 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night Robert  Burns 108 

The  Brighter  Day. Ancnymous 34 

The  Cataract  at  Lodore R.  Seuthey 84 

The  Chrism  and  Crown  of  Love Elizabeth  B.  Browning- i»8 

The  Day  Is  Done H.  W.  Longfellow yo 

The  Death  of  Marmion Sir  Walter  Scott 166 

The  Dying  Savior Paul  Gerhardt 79 

The  Eternal  Years Frederic  W.  Faber 155 

The  German  Watchman's  Song Anonymous 319 

The  Faded  Violet   Anonymous 247 

The  Girdle  ok  Friendship O.  W.  Holmee 292 

The  Hand  of  Lincoln E.  C.  Stedman 289 

7he  Inchcape  Rock Robert  Southey 13 

The  Irish  Emigrant Lady  D-ufferin 172 

The  Lano  Which  No  Mortal  May  Know Bernard  Barton 266 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers Mrs.  Hemans 31 

The  Love  Knot Nora  Perry. 288 

The  Maid's  Lament W.  S.  Landor 307 

The  Marseilles  Hymn ....Roger  De  Lisle 181 

The  Model  Church .John  H.  Yates •99 

The  May  Queen Lord  Tennyson 6a 

The  Mem  of  Old Lord  Houghton 47 

The  Morning  Glory Anonymous 234 

The  Milk-maid's  Song Sydney  Dobell 39 

The  Old  Arm  Chair Eliza  Cook M 


6  CX)NTENTS, 

Thb  Old  Oaken  SuctcBr SamtuZ  Woodviarth y^ 

The  One-Hoss  Shay Oliver  IVendell  Holme* . .,     .'43 

The  Origin  op  the  Harp Thomas  Moore ,  tx% 

The  Plaidie Charles  Sibley 867 

The  Raven Edgar  Allan  Pot ijS 

The  Right  Must  Win Frederic  W.  Faber 233 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem Henry  Kirk  White  .,.^^,.    5a 

The  Story  of  the  Faithful  Soul A.  A.  Procter 383 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt Thomas  Hood.,,,., 193 

The  Stormy  Petrel B.  W.Procter 121 

The  Terrace  at  Berne »,,,,, ,,,,,. Matthew  Arnold 360 

The  Two  Mysteries Mary  Mapts  Dodge 176 

The  Welcome Thomas  Davis 174 

The  World  is  all  a  Fleeting  Show Thomas  Moore 241 

There's  Nae  Luck  About  the  House William  J,  Mickle htS 

Those  Evening  Bells Thomas  Moore t^ 

Thou  Akt,  O  God Thomus  Moore «49 

To  lANTi-IE  iX-SEPiNG Percy  B.  Shelley 6g 

To  Primroses  Filled  with  Dew , Robert  Herrick «<Se 

Tommy's  Dead Sydney  Dobell. S39 

We  Shall  Know Anonymous •7a 

Welcome  to  the  Nations Oliver  Wendell Holtnet,,,.  154 

What  is  Heaven? Philip  James  Bailey 301 

What  is  Time? Anonymous 30S 

What  Makes  a  Hero? Henry  Taylor  ., 841 

When  Coldness  Wraps  this  Suffering  Clay  ...Lord Byron 318 

William  Tell  Among  the  Mountains Sheridan  KnovaUs ia6 

Wolsey's  Farewell  to  Powsk ,.../*'.  Shuikspeare  .  103 

Wrcstumc  Jacos .-    „..Ciuu^i»sWMltf tarn 


FAVORITE  POEMS. 


SHERIDAN'S   RIDE. 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 

Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 

The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 

Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 

The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar. 

Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more. 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war, 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway,  leading  down; 

And  there,  through  the  flash  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night. 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight. 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  the  utmost  speed; 

Hills  rose  and  fell, — but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 


lo  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  Soutk^ 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth; 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed,  and  the  heart  of  the  master, 
Were  beating,  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls: 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play. 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind, 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind: 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire^ 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire; 

But  lo!  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire, 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops; 
What  was  done, — what  to  do, — a  glance  told  him  both. 
And,  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath. 
He  dashed  down  the  line  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas. 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there, 

because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  nostril's  play, 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the  day!" 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  H 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, — 
The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, — 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright: 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester, — twenty  miles  away!" 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


FOREST  HYMN. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave. 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems, — in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication.     Let  me,  then,  at  least. 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood. 

Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  Thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns;  Thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They  in  Thy  sun 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  Thy  breeze. 


IS  favok^j'e  poems. 

Knd  shot  toward  heaven.     The  century-living  crow 
Whose  birth  was  in  the  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches, — till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark. 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshiper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  Thy  fair  works.     But  Thou  art  there;  Thou  fill'st 
The  solitude;  Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music;  Thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 
Comes,  scarcely  felt;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground. 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  Thee. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 


THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE. WORLD. 

What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? 
June-rose,  by  May-dew  impearled; 
Sweet  south-wind,  that  means  no  rain; 
Truth,  not  cruel  to  a  friend; 
Pleasure,  not  in  haste  to  end; 
Beauty,  not  self-decked  and  curled 
Till  its  pride  is  over-plain; 
Light,  that  never  makes  you  wink; 
Memory,  that  gives  no  pain; 
Love,  when,  so,  you're  loved  again. 
What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? — 
Something  out  of  it,  I  think. 

AnONYMOUSi. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  «3 


THE   INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea,- 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion j 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  rock; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell. 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  bell. 

The  holy  Abbot  of  Aberbrothock 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  rock; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  surges'  swe'i. 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothock. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, — 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  around, 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  bell  was  seen, 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green; 
Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  walked  his  deck. 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, — 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 


14  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess; 
But  the  rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  bell  and  float: 

Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat; 

And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  rock, 

And  I'll  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothock." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 
And  to  the  Inchcape  rock  they  go; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 
And  cut  the  warning  bell  from  the  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound; 
The  bubbles  rose,  and  burst  around. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  tc  the  rodfe 
Will  not  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothock." 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  sailed  away, — 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store, 
He  steers  his  course  to  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky, 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  rover  takes  his  stand; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers  roar? 
For  yonder,  methinks,  should  be  the  shore. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  \< 

Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 

But  I  wish  we  could  hear  the  Inchcape  bell." 

They  hear  no  sound;  the  swell  is  strong; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along; 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock, — 
O  Christ!  it  is  the  Inchcape  rock! 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  tore  his  hair. 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair. 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side; 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  ever  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  he  seemed  to  hear,— » 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  bell 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Robert  Southed* 


HIAWATHA'S  WOOING. 

"As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 
So  UBto  the  man  is  woman; 
Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him. 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows, 
Useless  each  without  the  other!  " 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 


1 6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

"  Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis; 
"  Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not! 
Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearthstone 
Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter, 
Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers!  " 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this:  *'  Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight!  " 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis: 
*•  Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman, 
Hands  unskillful,  feet  unwilling, 
Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  fingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands! " 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha: 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 
Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
-Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people!" 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1? 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis: 
"  Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs! 
Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotalis; 
Often  is  there  war  between  us; 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 
Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  openT* 

Laughing,  answered  Hiawatha: 
"  For  that  reason,  if  no  other, 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  foreverl " 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 

To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

To  the  land  of  handsome  women; 

Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 

Through  interminable  forests, 

Through  uninterrupted  silence. 
With  his  moccasins  of  magic, 

At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured; 

Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 

And  his  heart  outrun'^his  footsteps, 

And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 

Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter. 

Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 

Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"  Pleasant  is  the  sound!  "  he  murmured, 
**■  Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me!  " 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshiny 


l8  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha; 
To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "  Fail  not." 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  "  Swerve  not,*" 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand. 
To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck; 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 
And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, — 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 
At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty. 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 
Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes; 
Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  wer& 
And  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison. 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow; 
Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 
Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were: 
Now  the  men  were  like  the  women, 
Only  used  their  tongv'C-s  for  weaponst 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  '^% 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsonje, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 
Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows, 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha? 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a  foot»terj. 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches, 
And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead. 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrovz-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 
Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow. 
Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorv/ay. 
Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, 
**  Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome!  " 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders* 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him. 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 


30  tA^ORITE  POEMS. 

Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
"You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha!" 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened. 
With  the  Gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet. 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened. 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 
Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions, 
Chibiabas,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  ^^ 

*'  After  many  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  O  jib  ways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 

"  That  this  peace  may  last  forever, 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united. 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women!" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered. 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence. 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly. 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely. 

"Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha!  " 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
Seemed  more  lovely,  as  she  stood  there. 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
**  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband!  " 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 


22  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow. 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  afar  off, 
"Fare  thee  well,  O  Minnehaha!" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor, 
Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway. 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying: 
'*Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us. 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us! 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them. 
Comes  a  youth  with  flaunting  feathers, 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village. 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden. 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her. 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger!  " 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 
Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  23 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 
As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear; 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 
Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches. 
And  a  bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock, 
And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 
With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 

All  the  traveling  winds  went  with  them, 
O'er  the  meadow,  through  the  forest; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slumberj 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow. 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches. 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward! 

All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 

Songs  of  happiness  and  heart's-ease. 

Sang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 

Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you!" 

Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
"  Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Water, 

Having  such  a  noble  husband!" 


24  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

From  the  sky  the.. sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,  "  O  my  children, 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow; 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine; 
Rule  by  love,  O  Hiawatha! " 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them. 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them,  "  O  my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble; 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow; 
Rule  by  patience.  Laughing  Water! " 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight. 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 

Henry  W,  Longfellow. 


THE|BRIGHTER  DAY. 

It's  coming  on  the  steeps  of  time. 

And  this  old  world  is  growing  brighter; 

We  may  not  see  its  dawn  sublime. 

But  high  hopes  make  the  heart  throb  lighter. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  2$ 

We  may  be  sleeping  in  our  graves 

When  it  awakes  the  world  in  wonder. 
But  we  have  felt  it  coming  sound, 
And  heard  its  voice  of  living  thunder. 
It's  coming!     Yes,  it's  coming! 

Anonymous. 


LITTLE   MATTIE. 

I. 
Dead!  Thirteen  a  month  ago! 

Short  and  narrow  her  life's  walk; 
Lover's  love  she  could  not  know" 

Even  by  a  dream  or  talk: 
Too  young  to  be  glad  of  youth. 

Missing  honor,  labor,  rest, 
And  the  warmth  of  a  baoe's  moutli 

At  the  blossom  of  her  breast. 
Must  you  pity  her  for  this 
And  for  all  the  loss  it  is. 
You,  her  mother,  with  wet  face, 
Having  had  all  in  your  case  ? 

II. 
Just  so  young  but  yesternight, 

Now  she  is  as  old  as  death. 
Meek,  obedient  in  your  sight, 

Gentle  to  a  beck  or  breath 
Only  on  last  Monday!     Yours, 

Answering  you  like  silver  bells 
Slightly  touched!     An  hour  matures; 

You  can  teach  her  nothing  else. 


26  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

She  has  seen  the  mystery  hid 

Under  Egypt's  pyramid: 

By  those  eyelids  pale  and  close 

Now  she  knows  what  Rhamses  knowa. 

III. 

Cross  her  quiet  hands  and  smooth 

Down  her  patient  locks  of  silk, 
Cold  and  passive  as  in  truth 

You  your  fingers  in  spilt  milk 
Drew  along  a  marble  floor; 

But  her  lips  you  cannot  wring 
Into  saying  a  word  more, 

"Yes,"  or  ''No,"  or  such  a  thing: 
Though  you  call  and  beg  and  wreak 
Half  your  soul  out  in  a  shriek, 
She  will  lie  there  in  default 
And  most  innocent  revolt. 

IV. 

Ay,  and  if  she  spoke,  may  be 

She  would  answer  like  the  Son, 
"What  is  now  'twixt  thee  and  me?" 

Dreadful  answer!  better  none. 
Yours  on  Monday,  God's  to-day! 

Yours,  your  child,  your  blood,  your  heart, 
Called you  called  her,  did  you  say, 

"  Little  Mattie  "  for  your  part  ? 
Now  already  it  sounds  strange, 
And  you  wonder,  in  this  change. 
What  He  calls  His  angel -creature. 
Higher  up  than  you  can  reach  her. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  2V 

V. 

'Twas  a  green  and  easy  world 

As  she  took  it;  room  to  play 
(Though  one's  hair  might  get  uncurled 

At  the  far  end  of  the  day). 
What  she  suffered  she  shook  off 

In  the  sunshine;  what  she  sinned 
She  could  pray  on  high  enough 

To  keep  safe  above  the  wind. 
If  reproved  by  God  or  you, 

'Twas  to  better  her,  she  knew; 
And  if  crossed,  she  gathered  still 
'Twas  to  cross  out  something  ill. 

VI. 

You,  you  had  the  right,  you  thought. 

To  survey  her  with  sweet  scorn, 
Poor  gay  child,  who  had  not  caught 

Yet  the  octave-stretch  forlorn 
Of  your  larger  wisdom!     Nay, 

Now  your  places  are  changed  so, 
In  that  same  superior  way 

She  regards  you  dull  and  low 
As  you  did  herself  exempt 
From  life's  sorrows.     Grand  contempt 
Of  the  spirits  risen  awhile, 
Who  look  back  with  such  a  smile! 

VII. 

There's  the  sting  oft.     That,  I  think, 
Hurts  the  most  a  thousandfold'. 

To  feel  sudden,  at  a  wink. 

Some  dear  child  we  used  to  scold, 


bB  favorite  poems. 

Praise,  love  both  ways,  kiss  and  tease, 

Teach  and  tumble  as  oui  own, 
All  its  curls  about  our  K;nees, 

Rise  up  suddenly  full-grown. 
Who  could  wonder  such  a  sight 
Made  a  woman  mad  outright  ? 
Show  me  Michael  with  the  sword 
Rather  than  such  angels,  Lord! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


BOSTON    HYMN. 
Read  in  Music  Hall,  January  i,  1863. 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  pilgrims  came. 

As  they  sat  by  the  seaside, 

And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings — 

I  suffer  them  no  more; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 

The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 

A  field  of  havoc  and  war, 
Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor  ? 

My  angel — his  name  is  Freedom — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king; 

He  shall  cut  pathways  East  and  West, 
And  'fend  you  with  his  wing. 


FAVORITE  POEM%.  H 

Lo!  I  uncover  the  land 

Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  the  statue 
/   When  he  has  wrought  his  best. 

I  show  Columbia  of  the  rocks 

Which  dip  their  feet  in  the  seas, 
And  soar  to  the  air-born  flocks 

Of  clouds,  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods; 

Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave; 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 

And  none  but  toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 

No  lineage  counted  great; 
Fishers,  and  choppers,  and  plowmen. 

Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest. 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs: 

Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 

The  young  men  and  the  sires. 
The  digger  in  the  harvest  field 

Hireling,  and  him  that  hires. 

And  here  in  a  pine  state  house 

They  shall  choose  men  to  rui«* 
in  every  needful  faculty. 

In  ciiurch,  and  state,  ana  sciiOoL 


30  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Lo,  now!  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea. 

And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men; 

'Tis  nobleness  to  serve; 
Help  them  who  cannot  help  again: 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 

And  I  unchain  the  slave, 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth, 

As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 

His  proper  good  to  flow; 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 

So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But  laying  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 

He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim, 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive, 

So  only  are  ye  unbound; 
Lilt  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 

Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound. 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner 
Ana  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim. 

Wno  IS  the  owner  ?    The  slave  is  owner. 
And  ever  was.     Pay  him. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  3 1 

O  North!  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  O  South!  for  his  shame; 

Nevada!  coin  thy  golden  crags, 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up!  and  the  dusky  race 

That  sat  in  darkness  long, 
Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 

And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come  East,  and  West,  and  North, 

By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 

Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  way  fulfilled  shall  be, 

For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 

His  way  home  to  the  mark, 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


THE    LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIM    FATHERS 
IN    NEW-ENGLAND. 

"  Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  filled 

Those  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled; 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads." 

— Bryant, 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high, 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormv  '^% 

Their  giant  branches  tossed; 


32  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  baiis 

On  the  wild  New-England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted  came; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  famej 

Not  as  the  flying  come. 

In  silence  and  in  fear; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared-*" 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band: 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there. 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye. 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 
There  was  manhood's  brew  serenely  high 

^^Vi.^  ^iie  fiery  heart  of  youth. 


'^''^c-Cfi''* 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  i3 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod; — 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found-^ 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Felicia  Hemans. 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 

There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth  ol 

woman's  tears; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his   life-blood 

ebbed  away, 
And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he  might  say 
The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he  took  that  comrade'^ 

hand,  \ 

And  he  said,  "  I  never  more  shall  see  my  own,  my  native    ^ 

land: 
Take  a  message  and  a  token  to  some  distant  friends  of 

mine; 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen, — at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and 
crowd  around. 

To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vineyard- 
ground. 


34  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and,  when  the  day 

was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the  setting 

sun: 
And  'mid  the  dead  and  dying  were  some  grown  old  in 

wars, — 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of 

many  scars; 
.-  nd  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn 

decline,- — 
And  one  had  come  from   Bingen, — fair  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  comfort  her  old 

age; 
For  I  was   still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a 

cage; 
For  m)''  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  h^,^r  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce 

and  wild;  "-^' 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would, — but  kept  my  father's 

sword; 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light 

used  to  shine. 
On  the  cottage  wall  at   Bingen, — calm   Bingen  on   the 

Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  droop- 
ing head. 

When  the  troops  come  marching  home  again,  with  glad 
and  gallant  treads 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  35 

But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  steadfast 

eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier,  too,  and  not  afraid  to  die; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my  name, 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame. 
And  to  hang  the    old  sword   in   its   place   (my  father's 

sword  and  mine). 
For  the  honor  of  old   Bingen,  —  dear   Bingen  on   the 

Rhine. 


"There's    another — not   a    sister;    in    the    happy   days 

gone  by 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled 

in  her  eye; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry, — too  fond  for  idle  scorning, — 
O,  friend!    I  fear   the   lightest   heart   makes   sometimes 

heaviest  mourning! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for  ere  the  moon  be 

risen, 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of  prison) — 
I  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow  sunlight 

shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen, — sweet  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along, — I  heard,  or  seemed 

to  hear, 
The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing  in  chorus  sweet  and 

clear; 
And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill. 
The  echoing  chorus  sounded  through  the  evening  calm 

and  still; 


36  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed  with 

friendly  talk, 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well-remembered 

walk! 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine, — 
But  we  meet  no  more  at  Bingen, — loved  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse, —  his  grasj^ 

was  childish  weak, — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look, — he  sighed,  and  ceased  to 

speak; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had 

fled,— 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  dead! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  looked 

down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody  corsej; 

strewn; 
Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed 

to  shine. 
As   it   shone   on   distant   Bingen,  —  fair   Bingen   on  the 

Rhine. 

The  Hon.  Mrs,  Norton. 


LITTLE    TYRANT. 

Let  every  sound  be  dead; 

Baby  sleeps. 
The  Emperor  softly  tread! 

Baby  sleeps. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  37 

Let  Mozart's  music  stop  [ 

Let  Phidias'  chisel  drop! 

Baby  sleeps. 

Demosthenes  be  dumb! 

Our  tyrant's  hour  has  come'. 

Baby  sleeps. 

Anonymous. 


BEAUTIFUL  HANDS. 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands! 

They  are  neither  white  nor  small, 
And  you,  I  know,  would  scarcely  think 

That  they  were  fair  at  all. 
I've  looked  on  hands  whose  form  and  hue 

A  sculptor's  dream  might  be; 
Yet  are  these  aged,  wrinkled  hands 

More  beautiful  to  me. 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands. 

Though  heart  were  weary  and  sad, 
Those  patient  hands  kept  toiling  on, 

That  children  might  be  glad. 
I  almost  weep,  as  looking  back 

To  childhood's  distant  day, 
I  think  how  those  hands  rested  not 

While  mine  were  at  their  play. 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands! 

They're  growing  feeble  now, 
For  time  and  pain  have  left  their  work 

On  hand,  and  heart,  and  brow, 


3*  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Alas!  alas!  the  wearing  time, 

And  the  sad,  sad  day  to  me. 
When  'neath  the  daisies,  out  of  sight, 

Those  hands  will  folded  be. 

But  oh,  beyond  this  shadowy  damp. 

Where  all  is  bright  and  fair, 
i  know  full  well  these  dear  old  hands 

Will  palms  of  victory  bear; 
Where  crystal  streams  thro'  endless  years 

Flow  over  golden  sands, 
And  when  the  old  grow  young  again 

ril  clasp  my  mother's  hands. 

Anonymous. 


ANNIE  LAURIE, 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew. 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true; 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true, 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie, 
I'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw  drift' 
Her  throat  is  like  the  swan; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on-—- 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on-^ 
And  dark  blue  is  heree; 


FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 

Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet; 

And  like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 

And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Anonymous. 


THE  MILKMAID'S  SONG. 

Turn,  turn,  for  my  cheeks  they  burn,, 

Turn  by  the  dale,  my  Harry! 

Fill  pail,  fill  pail. 

He  has  turned  by  the  dale, 

\nd  there  by  the  stile  waits  Harry. 

Fill,  fill, 

Fillpail,  fill. 

For  there  by  the  stile  waits  Harry! 

The  world  may  go  round,  the  world  may  stand  still, 

But  I  can  milk  and  marry, 

Fillpail, 

I  can  milk  and  marry. 

Wheugh,  wheugh! 

Oh,  if  we  two 

Stood  down  there  now  by  the  water, 

I  know  who'd  carry  me  over  the  ford 

As  brave  as  a  soldier,  as  proud  as  a  lord. 

Though  I  don't  live  over  the  water. 


4°  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

Wheugh,  wheugh!  he's  whistling  through, 

He's  whistling  the  "  Farmer's  Daughter." 

Give  down,  give  down, 

My  crumpled  brown! 

He  shall  not  take  the  road  to  the  town, 

For  I'll  meet  him  beyond  the  water. 

Give  down,  give  down, 

My  crumpled  brown! 

And  send  me  to  my  Harry. 

The  folk  o'  towns 

May  have  silken  gowns. 

But  I  can  milk  and  inarry, 

Fillpail, 

I  can  milk  and  marry. 

Wheugh,  wheugh!  he  has  whistled  through. 

He  has  whistled  through  the  water. 

Fill,  fill,  with  a  will,  a  will, 

For  he's  whistled  through  the  water, 

And  he's  whistling  down 

The  way  to  the  town, 

And  it's  not  the  "  Farmer's  Daughter!  ** 

Churr,  churr!  goes  the  cockchafer, 

The  sun  sets  over  the  water, 

Churr,  churr!  goes  the  cockchafer, 

I'm  too  late  for  my  Harry! 

And,  oh,  if  he  goes  a-soldiering. 

The  cows  they  may  low,  the  bells  they  iinay  vinju 

But  I'll  neither  milk  nor  marry, 

Fillpail, 

Neither  milk  nor  marry. 

My  brow  beats  on  thy  flank,  Fillpail, 
Give  down,  good  wench,  give  down! 


FAVORITE  POEMS, 

I  know  the  primrose  bank,  Fillpail, 

Between  him  and  the  town. 

Give  down,  good  wench,  give  down,  Fillpai', 

And  he  shall  not  reach  the  town! 

Strain,  strain,  he's  whistling  again, 

He's  nearer  by  half  a  mile. 

More,  more!  Oh,  never  before 

Were  you  such  a  weary  while! 

Fill,  fill,  he's  crossed  the  hill, 

I  can  see  him  down  by  the  stile; 

He's  passed  the  hay,  he's  coming  this  way, 

He's  coming  to  me,  my  Harry! 

Give  silken  gowns  to  the  folks  o'  towns, 

He's  coming  to  me,  my  Harry! 

There's  not  so  grand  a  dame  in  the  land, 

That  she  walks  to-night  with  Harry! 

Come  late,  come  soon,  come  sun,  come  moon, 

Oh,  I  can  milk  and  marry, 

Fillpail, 

I  can  milk  and  marry. 

Wheugh,  wheugh!  he  has  whistled  through, 

My  Harry!  my  lad!  my  lover! 

Set  the  sun  and  fall  the  dew, 

Heigh-ho,  merry  world,  what's  to  do 

That  you're  smiling  over  and  over? 

Up  on  the  hill  and  down  in  the  dale. 

And  along  the  tree-tops  over  the  vale 

Shining  over  and  over, 

Low  in  the  grass  and  high  on  the  bougli. 

Shining  over  and  over, 

O  world,  have  you  ever  a  lover?    ^ 

You  were  so  dull  and  cold  just  now 


42  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

0  world,  hav<2  you  ever  a  lover  ? 

1  could  not  see  a  leaf  on  the  tree, 

And  now  I  could  count  them,  one,  two,  three, 

Count  them  over  and  over, 

Leaf  from  leaf  like  lips  apart, 

Like  lips  apart  for  a  lover. 

And  the  hillside  beats  with  my  beating  heart, 

And  the  apple-tree  blushes  all  over, 

And  the  May  bough  touched  me  and  made  me  start. 

And  the  wind  breathes  warm  like  a  lover. 

Pull,  pull,  and  the  pail  is  full, 

And  milking's  done  and  over. 

Who  would  not  sit  here  under  the  tree  ? 

What  a  fair,  fair  thing's  a  green  field  to  see; 

Brim,  brim,  to  the  rim,  ah  me! 

I  have  set  my  pail  on  the  daisies! 

It  seems  so  light, — can  the  sun  be  set? 

The  dews  must  be  heavy,  my  cheeks  are  v/et. 

I  could  cry  to  have  hurt  the  daisies! 

Harry  is  near,  Harry  is  near, 

My  heart's  as  sick  as  if  he  were  here, 

My  lips  are  burning,  my  cheeks  are  wet, 

He  hasn't  uttered  a  word  as  yet, 

But  the  air's  astir  with  his  praises. 

My  Harry! 

The  air's  astir  with  your  praises. 

He  has  scaled  the  rock  by  the  pixy's  stone. 

He's  among  the  kingcups — he  picks  me  one, 

I  love  the  grass  that  I  tread  upon 

When  I  go  to  my  Harry! 

He  has  jumped  the  brook,  he  has  climbed  the  knowe, 

There's  never  a  faster  foot  I  trow 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  4* 

But  Still  he  seems  to  tarry. 

0  Harry!  O  Harry!  my  love,  my  pride. 
My  heart  is  leaping,  my  arms  are  wide! 
Roll  up,  roll  up,  you  dull  hillside. 
Roll  up,  and  bring  my  Harry! 

They  may  talk  of  glory  over  the  sea, 

But  Harry's  alive,  and  Harry's  for  me, 

My  love,  my  lad,  my  Harry! 

Come  spring,  come  winter,  come  sun,  come  snow. 

What  cares  Dolly,  whether  or  no, 

While  I  can  milk  and  marry  ? 

Right  or  wrong,  and  wrong  or  right, 

Quarrel  who  quarrel,  and  fight  who  fight, 

But  I'll  bring  my  pail  home  every  night 

To  love,  and  home,  and  Harry! 

We'll  drink  our  can,  we'll  eat  our  cake. 

There's  beer  in  the  barrel,  there's  bread  in  the  bake, 

The  world  may  sleep,  the  world  may  wake. 

But  I  shall  milk  and  marry, 

And  marry, 

1  shall  milk  and  marry.  Sydney  Dobell. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 
Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight 

When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 

That  is  known  as  the  children's  hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet; 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened. 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 


44  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence, 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway; 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall; 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle-wall. 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret, 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 
If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me; 
""  They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwme. 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen, 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti. 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall. 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart. 

But  put  you  into  the  dungeon, 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  45 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever— i 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day; 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown! 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  ta  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves, 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, — 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loveSj 
To  faint  in  its  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune, — 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 
She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 


46  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone. 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever  mine!  " 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood. 

As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood^ 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 
That^  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs, 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  wh'ch  we  meet, 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  47 

^ueen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 

Come  hither!  the  dances  are  done; 
In  gloss,  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 
Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate! 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near; " 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late; " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear; " 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet! 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  centviry  dead; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

Alfred  TENNYsaN. 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old 

Were  better  than  men  now, 
■Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold, 

Of  more  ins:enuous  brov/: 


48  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I  heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 

A  ghost  of  time  to  raise, 
As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 

Of  these  appointed  days. 

'  Still  is  it  true,  and  over-true, 

That  I  delight  to  close 
This  book  of  life  self-wise  and  new^ 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness 

The  world  has  since  foregone — 
The  daylight  of  contentedness 

That  on  those  faces  shone! 

With  rights,  though  not  too  closely  scannedL 

Enjoyed,  as  far  as  known — 
With  will,  by  no  reverse  unmanned — - 

With  pulse  of  even  tone — 
They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night 

Expected  nothing  more 
Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 

Had  proffered  them  before. 

A  man's  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  feet, 
It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 

That  we  are  sick  to  greet: 
For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 

We  struggle  and  aspire — 
Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 

The  air  of  fresh  desire. 

Lord  Houghton- 


FAVORITE  FOEMi^  48> 


MAUD   MULLER. 

Maud  Miiller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Kaked  the  meadows  sweet  with  hay. 
Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wcairh 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 
Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  giee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 
But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town- 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 
The  sweet  song  died  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast— 
A  wish,  she  had  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 
The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 
He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 
Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 
And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 
She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up^, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup. 
And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 
Then  said  the  Judge,  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 
He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees; 
Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 
And  Maud  forgot  her  brier  torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles,  bare  and  brown, 


JO  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyeSw 
At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay- 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 
/  Maud  Miiller  looked,  and  sighed:  "Ah  me 

That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be! 
He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 
My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat; 
I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay. 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  d-ay. 
And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor. 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 
The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Miiller  standing  still. 
^  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet; 
And  her  modest  and  graceful  air 
Shows  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 
Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay; 
No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 
But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds. 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 
But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 
So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on. 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 
But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune; 
And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well. 


FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  felt. 
He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 
Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  gloW; 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go: 
And  sweet  Maud  Miiller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 
Oft  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red. 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  rill  instead, 
And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms. 
And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a  secret  paii?, 
**  Ah,  that  I  was  free  again! 
Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day 
Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay.'* 
She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door; 
But  care  and  sorrow  and  childbirth  pain 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 
And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadov/  lot. 
And  she  heard  the  little  spring-brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall. 
In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 
And   Qfazins:  down  with  tender  arrace. 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 
Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 
The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned. 
And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  log 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug^ 


5«  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 

And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 

Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  refiner  and  household  drudget 

God  pity  them  both!  and  pity  us  all, 

Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these:  "  It  might  have  been.'" 

Ah,  well!  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 

Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 

Poll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away, 

John  G,  Whittier. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

When  marshal'd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

Hark!  hark!  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem; 

But  one  alone  the  Savior  speaks. 
It  is  the  star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  sea  I  rode. 

The  storm  was  loud, — the  night  was  dark,— 
The  ocean  yawn'd, — and  rudely  blow'd 

The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark. 


FA  VORITE,  POEMS.  S3 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem; 

When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 
It  was  the  star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 
It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers*  thrall. 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moored — my  perils  o'er, 

I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 
forever  and  for  evermore. 

The  star! — the  star  of  Bethlehem! 

Henry  Kirke  White. 


OOD  BLESS  OUR  FATHER-LAND. 

God  bless  our  father-land, 
Keep  her  in  heart  and  hand 

One  with  our  own; 
From  all  her  foes  defend. 
Be  her  brave  people's  Friend; 
On  all  her  realms  descend; 

Protect  her  throne. 

Father,  in  loving  care 

Guard  thou  her  kingdom's  heir, 

Guide  all  his  ways; 
Thine  arm  his  shelter  be 
From  harm  by  land  and  sea; 
Bid  storm  and  danger  liee; 

Prolong  his  days. 


54  FAVOk/TE  POiLMS. 


Lord,  bid  war's  trumpet  cease; 
Fold  the  whole  earth  in  peace 

Under  thy  wings; 
Make  all  thy  nations  one, 
All  hearts  beneath  thy  sun, 
Till  thou  shalt  reign  alone, 

Great  King  of  kings. 

Q  W.  H0LMI& 


CLEAR  THE  WAY. 

Men  of  thought!  be  up,  and  stirring 

Night  and  day: 
Sow  the  seed — withdraw  the  curtain- 
Clear  the  way! 
Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them, 

As  ye  may! 
There's  a  fount  about  to  stream. 
There's  a  light  about  to  beam, 
There's  a  warmth  about  to  glow, 
There's  a  flower  about  to  blow; 
There's  a  midnight  blackness  changing 

Into  gray; 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 
Clear  the  way! 

Once  the  welcome  light  has  broken. 

Who  shall  say 
What  the  unimagined  glories 

Of  the  day? 
What  the  evil  that  shall  perish 

In  its  ray? 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  55 

Aid  the  dawning,  tongue  and  p^i? 
Aid  it,  hopes  of  honest  men; 
Aid  it,  paper — aid  it,  type — 
Aid  it,  for  the  hour  is  ripe, 
And  our  earnest  must  not  slacken 

Into  play; 
M«n  of  thought  and  men  of  action^ 

Clear  the  way! 

Lo!  a  cloud's  about  to  vanish 

From  the  day; 
And  a  brazen  wrong  to  crumble 

Into  clay. 
Lo!  the  right's  about  to  conquerj 

Clear  the  way! 
With  the  Right  shall  many  more 
Enter  smiling  at  the  door; 
With  the  giant  Wrong  shall  fall 
Many  others,  great  and  small, 
That  for  ages  long  have  held  us 

For  their  prey. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way! 

Charles  Mackax: 


INTIMATIONS   OF  IMMORTALITY. 

O,  listen,  man! 
A  voice  within  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 
"Man,  thou  shalt  never  die!  "     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  round  our  souls;  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touch'd,  when  the  mild  stars 


^  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality! 
Thick  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  sea» 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

O,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits!  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air!     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight; 
'Tis  floating  in  day's  setting  glories;  night, 
Wrapp'd  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step, 
Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears; 
Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve^ 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse. 
As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touch'd 
By  an  unseen,  living  hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 

The  dying  hear  it;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 
Orow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls. 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

R.  H.  Dana. 


"JIM." 

Say,  there!     P'r'aps 
Some  on  you  chaps 

Might  know  Jim  Wild? 
Well — no  offence; 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 

In  gettin'  riled! 
Jim  was  my  chum 

Upon  the  Bar; 
That's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar, 
Lookin'  f«jr  lim. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  5> 

Thank  ye,  sir!      Y&u 
Ain't  of  that  crew — 

Blest  if  you  are! 
Money! — Not  much; 

That  ain't  my  kind; 
I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum  ? — I  don't  mind, 
Seein'  it's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  jj-ou  know  him  ? — 
Jess  about  your  size; 
Same  kind  of  eyes — 
Well,  that  is  strange; 

Why,  it's  two  year 

Since  he  came  here. 
Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here's  to  us; 
Eh? 

The  h you  say! 

Dead  ?— 
That  little  cuss  ? 
What  makes  you  star- 
You,  over  thar  ? 
Can't  a  man  drop 
'S  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  r'ar  ? 

It  wouldn't  take 

D much  to  bres^r 

You  and  your  bar. 

Dead! 
Poor— little — Jim! 


FAVORITE  POEMS, 

Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben, 
No-account  men; 
Then  to  take  him  / 
Well,  thar —    Good-bye-— 
No  more,  sir — I — 

Eh? 
What's  that  you  say? 
Why,  dern  it! — sho! — 
No?     Yes?     By  Jo! 

Sold! 
Sold!     Why,  you  limb, 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim! 


Bret  Harte, 


ONLY  ONE  LIFE. 

^Tis  not  for  man  to  trifle:  life  is  brief. 

And  sin  is  here. 
Our  age  is  but  the  falling  of  a  leaf, 

A  dropping  tear. 
We  have  no  time  to  sport  away  the  hours; 
All  must  be  earnest  in  a  world  like  ours. 

Noc  many  lives,  but  only  one  have  we; 

One,  only  one. 
How  sacred  should  that  one  life  ever  be — 
Day  after  day  filled  up  with  blessed  toil. 
Hour  after  hour  still  bringing  in  new  spoil! 

HORATIUS   BONAR. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  59 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly;  at  dead  of  night; 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 
By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

"We  thought — as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow — 

How  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 
head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 


6o  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring, 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  suddenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory. 

We  curved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  left  him- — ^alone  with  bis  glory! 

J.  Wolfe. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 

PART    FIRST. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mothet 

dear; 
To-morrow'll  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  new 

year; 
Of  all  the  glad  new  year,  mother,  the  maddest,  merriest 

day; 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never 
wake. 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud,  when  the  day  begins  to 
break; 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  gar- 
lands gay, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 


/ 

FAVORITE  POEMS.  6l 

f-ittle  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 
And  you'll  be  there  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the 

Queen; 
For  the  shepherd  lads    on  every  side'll   come  from  far 

away, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  '11  be  fresh,  and  green,  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  pver  all  the  hill. 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale'U  merrily  glance  and 

play, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mothet 

dear; 
To-morrow'll  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  new 

year; 
ro-morrow'U  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest,  merriest  day. 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

PART    SECOND — NEW    YEAR'S   EVE. 

[f  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  new  yeai-; 
It  is  the  last  new  year  that  I  shall  ever  see; 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'   the  mold,  and  thifk  no 
more  of  me. 

Fo-night  I  saw  the  sun  set;  he  set  a;id  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  r»ld  time,  and  all  my  peace 
of  mind; 


C-2  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  the  new  year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never 

see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree, 

'./here's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills;  the  frost  is  on  the 

pane; 
1  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snow-drops  come  again; 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt,  and  the  sun  come  out  on 

high; 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook'll  caw  from  the  windy,  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow'll  come  back  again  with  summer  o'd. 

the  wave. 
But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  moldering  grave. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning 

light, 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long,  gray  fields  at  night; 
When  from  the  dry,  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow 

cool. 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in 

the  pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn 

shade. 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly 

laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother;  I  shall  hear  you  when  you 

pass 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant 

grass. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  6.3 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting  place; 
Though  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  youf 

face; 
Though  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you 

say, 
■'^nd  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I'm  fa>? 

away. 

Good  night,  good  night;  when  I  have  said  good  nigh? 

forevermore. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door, 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing 

green; 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

Good  night,  sweet  mother;  call  me  before  the  day  is  born; 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New  Year; 
^o,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

PART    THIRD — CONCLUSION. 

1  thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alivG  I  am; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year; 
To  die  before  the  snow-drop  came,  and  now  the  violet'f 
here. 

O,  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me,  that  cannot 

rise; 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  tha5 

blow ; 
And  sweeter  far  is  d'jath  than  life  to  me,  that  long  to  ga 


64  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch 
beat; 

There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morn- 
ing meet; 

But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in 
mine, 

And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  dell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March  morning  I  heard  the  angels  call; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  wj:s  over 

all; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March  morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake,  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here; 
With  all  my  strength  I  prayed  for  both,  and  so  I  feit 

resigned. 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listened  in  my  bed, 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not  what 

was  said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  aU  my 

mind. 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  of  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping,  and  I  said,  "  It's  not  for  them;  it's 

mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I'd  take  it  for  a 

sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bers, 
Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  heaven,  and  die  among- 

the  stars. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  65 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is,     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  love  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day; 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  passed  away. 

O,  look!  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know; 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may 

shine. 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley,  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

Oh,  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is 

done. 
The  voice  that  now  is  speaking  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true: 
And  what  is  life  that  we  should  moan  ?    Why  make  we 

such  ado  ? 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home, 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast, 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are 
at  rest. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


BONDS  OF  AFFECTION. 

There  is  in  life  no  blessing  like  affection; 
It  soothes,  it  hallows,  elevates,  subdues, 
And  bringeth  down  to  earth  its  native  heaven. 
It  sits  beside  the  cradle  patient  hours, 
Whose  sole  contentment  is  to  watch  and  love; 


66  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

It  bendeth  o'er  the  death-bed,  and  conceals 
its  own  despair  with  words  of  faith  and  hope. 
Life  has  naught  else  that  may  supply  its  place; 
Void  is  ambition,  cold  is  vanity, 
And  wealth  an  empty  glitter,  without  love. 

L.  E.  LandoNc 


I  WONDER. 


I  wonder  if  ever  a  song  was  sung. 

But  the  singer's  heart  sang  sweeter? 
I  wonder  if  ever  a  rhyme  was  rung, 

But  the  thought  surpassed  the  meter? 
I  wonder  if  ever  the  sculptor  wrought 

Till  the  cold  stone  echoed  his  inmost  thought? 
Or  if  ever  a  painter,  with  light  and  shade, 

The  dream  of  his  inmost  soul  betrayed? 

Anonymous. 


AMERICA. 


O  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years; 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  6^ 

Thy  step — the  wild  deer's  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet; 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

Ay,  let  them  rail,  those  haughty  ones, 
While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
How  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

|l.  They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pridt,. 

What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide. — 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley  shades: 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen; 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  west; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered. 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared. 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams. 

There's  freedom  at  thy  gates,  and  rest 
For  earth's  down-trodden  and  opprest, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head. 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds. 
Stops,  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

O  fair  young  mother!  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 


68  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Dfeep  in  the  brightness  of  thy  skies, 
The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise. 

And  as  they  fleet, 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  with  every  coming  hour, 
Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower; 
And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born, 
Would  brand  thy  name  with  words  of  scorn, 

Before  thine  eye 
Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die. 

William  Cullen  Bryant, 


BEYOND. 


Oh,  ye  lost  ones,  ye  departed,  who  have  passed  that  silewt 

shore. 
Though  we  call  you  through  the  sunset  ye  return  to  u« 

no  more. 
Have  ye  found  the  blessed  islands  where  earth's  toils  and 

sorrows  cease  ? 
Do  ye  wear  the  sacred  lotus,  have  ye  entered  into  peace  ? 

Do  ye  hear  us  when  we  call  you,  do  ye  heed  the  tears 

we  shed, — 
Oh,  beloved!   oh,  immortals!  oh,  ye  dead  who  are  noX 

dead! 
Speak  to  us  across  the  darkness,  wave  to  us  a  glimmeriag 

hand. 
Tell  us  but  that  ye  remember,  dwellers  in  the  silent  landT 

Anonymous. 


FAVORITE  FOEMS,  69 

TO  lANTHE,  SLEEPING. 

How  wonderful  is  Death! 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon. 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  mom 
When  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world: 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  snow, 
That  lovely  outline  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish  ? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ? 
Spare  nothing  but  a  gloomy  theme. 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralize  ? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o'er  sensation, 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darkness  ? 
Will  lanthe  wake  again, 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy, 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life,  and  rapture  from  her  smile  ? 


70  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Yes!  she  will  wake  again, 
Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless, 
And  silent  those  sweet  lips, 
Once  breathing  eloquence 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage. 
Or  thawed  the  cold  heart  of  a  conqueror. 
Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath. 
The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed: 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  pride. 
Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 

Around  a  marble  column. 
Hr  *  *  *  * 

A  gentle  start  convulsed  lanthe's  frame: 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed; 
Moveless  awhile  the  dark  blue  orbs  remained. 
She  looked  around  in  wonder,  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneeled  in  silence  by  her  couch. 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speechless  love, 

And  the  bright-beaming  stars 

That  through  the  casement  shone. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shellsy 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  night. 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  7* 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist. 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist — 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  rain. 

Come  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 

And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime,  / 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  time; — 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 

Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor, 

And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet. 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; — 

Who  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 


72  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

H.    W.    LONGFELLO)« 


JIM  BLUDSO. 

Wall,  no!  I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, 

Because  he  don't  live,  you  see: 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  years, 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks, 

The  night  of  the  "  Prairie  Belle"  ? 

He  warn't  no  saint — them  engineers 

Is  pretty  much  all  alike — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-Hill, 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike. 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  man  in  a  row — 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  73 

But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never  lied,— 
I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had — 

To  treat  his  engine  well; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell; 
And  if  ever  the  *'  Prairie  Belle  "  took  fire, 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip'. 

And  her  day  come  at  last — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle,  she  wouldn't  be  passed, 
And  so  she  came  tearin'  along  that  night, 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line, 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right, 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"  I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 

Thro'  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  know'd  he  would  keep  his  word. 


74  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  sure's  you're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smoke-stacks  fell. 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  "Prairie  Belle." 

He  warn't  no  saint — but  at  jedgment 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead  sure  thing, — 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then; 
And  Christ  ain't  a-going  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  who  died  for  men. 

John  Hay. 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood. 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild-wood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew; — 
The  wide-spreading  pond  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it. 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure, 
For  often  at  noon  when  returned  from  the  field, 

I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  75 

How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing! 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell; 
Then  soon  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it 

Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And,  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 

Samuel  Woodworth. 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 

A    PATHETIC    BALLAD. 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 
And  used  to  war's  alarms; 

But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms. 

Now,  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "Let  others  shoot: 

For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg, 
And  the  Forty-second  foot." 


76  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs: 
Said  he,  "They're  only  pegs; 

But  there's  as  wooden  members  quite. 
As  represent  my  legs." 

Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid— 
Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray; 

So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 
When  he  devoured  his  pay. 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 
She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  leg^ 
Began  to  take  them  off. 

"  O,  Nelly  Gray!  O,  Nelly  Gray! 
Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 
Should  be  more  uniform." 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 
For  he  was  blithe  and  brave; 

But  I  will  never  have  a  man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave, 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes 
Your  love  I  did  allow; 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 
Another  footing-  now." 

«  O,  Nelly  Gray!  O,  Nelly  Gray; 
For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 
In  Badajoz's  breaches." 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  77 

"Why,  then,"  said  she,  "you've  lost  the  feet 
Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 
Upon  your  feats  of  arms." 

**  O,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray! 
I  know  why  you  refuse: 
Though  I've  no  feet,  some  other  man 
Is  standing  in  my  shoes. 

"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face; 
But,  now,  a  long  farewell! 
For  you  will  be  my  death; — alas! 
You  will  not  be  my  Nell!  " 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got. 
And  life  was  such  a  burden  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot. 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine. 
And  for  his  second  time  in  lif^ 

Enlisted  in  the  line. 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs; 
And,  as  his  legs  were  off,  of  course 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs. 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town; 
For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down. 


)|  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

With  a  stake  in  his  inside. 

Thomas  Hood. 


HAMLET'S   SOLILOQUY  ON  DEATH. 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question: 

Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 

The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 

And  by  opposing  end  them!     To  die,^— to  sleep, — 

No  more;  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 

The  heartache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 

That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 'tis  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die, — to  sleep; — 

To  sleep!  perchance  to  dream; — ay,  there's  the  rub; 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 

Must  give  us  pause:  there's  the  respect. 

That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life: 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time. 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 

The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

With  a  bare  bodkin?     Who  would  fardels  bear.' 

To  e^runt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life; 

But  that  the  dread  ot  something  after  deaih. 


FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Thfc  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourne 

No  traveler  returns,  puzzles  the  will, 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 

Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of  ? 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment. 

With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. 

ShARSF£AR£ 


THE  DYING  SAVIOR. 

O  sacred  Head,  now  wounded, 

With  grief  and  shame  weighed  down, 
Now  scornfully  surrounded 

With  thorns,  Thy  only  crown; 
O  sacred  head,  what  glor)% 

What  bliss,  till  now  was  ThineJ 
Yet,  though  despised  and  gory, 

I  joy  to  call  Thee  mine. 

O  noblest  brow  and  dearest, 

In  other  days  the  world 
All  feared  when  Thou  appearedst; 

What  shame  on  Thee  is  hurled! 
How  art  Thou  pale  with  anguish, 

With  sore  abuse  and  scora! 
How  does  that  visage  languish 

Which  once  was  bright  as  morn! 


So  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

What  language  shall  I  borrow, 

To  thank  Thee,  dearest  Friend, 
For  this  Thy  dying  sorrow, 

Thy  pity  without  end! 
O,  make  me  Thine  forever, 

And  should  I  fainting  be, 
Lord,  let  me  never,  never, 

Outlive  my  love  to  Thee, 

If  I,  a  wretch,  should  leave  Thee, 

O  Jesus,  leave  not  me! 
In  faith  may  I  receive  Thee, 

When  death  shall  set  me  free. 
When  strength  and  comfort  languish 

And  I  must  hence  depart, 
Release  me  then  from  anguish. 

By  Thine  own  wounded  heart. 

Be  near  when  I  am  dying, 

O,  show  Thy  cross  to  me! 
And  for  my  succor  flying. 

Come,  Lord,  to  set  me  free. 
These  eyes  new  faith  receiving, 

From  Jesus  shall  not  move  ; 
For  he  who  dies  believing 

Dies  safely  —  through  Thy  love. 

Paul  Gerhasu>i 
/  


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands; 

The  smith  a  mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy  hands. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  *1 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 
His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black  and  long; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 
Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell. 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low, 
And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door — 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  amongst  his  boys; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preachj 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice 
Singing  in  the  village  choir 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice; 
It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice  \ 

Singing  in  paradise. 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies. 
And  with  his  hard  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  *;ear  from  out  his  eyes. 


B2  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

1  oiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin. 

Each  evening  sees  its  close  ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done^ 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 
Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taughjt ; 
Thus,  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life, 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed,  each  thought. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


ENTERTAINING  HER  BIG  SISTER'S  BEAU. 

•*  My  sister'U  be  down  in  a  minute,  and  says  you're  \.<h 
wait,  if  )^ou  please. 

And  says  I  might  stay  till  she  came  if  I'd  promise  her 
never  to  tease. 

Nor  speak  till  you  spoke  to  me  first.  But  that's  non- 
sense, for  how  would  you  know 

What  she  told  me  to  say  if  I  didn't  ?  Don't  you  really 
and  truly  think  so  ? 

"  And  then  you'd   feel  strange  here  alone !     And   you 

wouldn't  know  just  where  to  sit ; 
For  that  chair  isn't  strong  on  its  legs,  and  we  never  use 

it  a  bit. 
We  keep  it  to  match  with  the  sofa.     But  Jack  says  it 

would  be  like  you 
To  flop  yourself   right  down  upon  it  and  knock  out 

the  very  last  screw. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  8$ 

■"  S'pose  you  try!     I  won't  tell.     You're  afraid  to— Oh, 

you're  afraid  they  would  think  it  was  mean? 
Well,  then,  there's  the  album — that's  pretty,  if  you're 

sure  that  you're  fingers  are  clean. 
For  sister  says  sometimes  I  daub  it,  but  she  only  says 

that  when  she's  cross. 
There's  her  picture.     You  know  it!     It's  like  her;  but 

she  ain't  as  good-looking,  of  course! 

**  This  is  ME.     It's  the  best  of  'm  all.     Now,  tell  me,  you'd 

never  have  thought 
That   once   I    was   little   as   that?     It's   the   only  one 

that  could  be  bought — 
For  that  was  the  message  to  Pa  from  the  photograph 

man  where  I  sat — 
That  he  wouldn't  print  off  any  more  till  he  first  got  his 

money  for  that. 

"'What?    Maybe  you're  tired  of   waiting?    Why,  often 

she's  longer  than  this; 
There's  all  her  back  hair  to  do  up,  and  all  of  her  front 

curls  to  friz. 
But  it's  nice   to  be  sitting   here  talking  like   grown 

people,  just  you  and  me  ; 
Do  you  think  you'll  be  coming  here  often?     Oh,  do! 

But  don't  come  like  Tom  Lee. 

"  Tom  Lee?     Her  last  beau.     Why,  my  goodness!     He 

used  to  be  here  day  and  night. 
Till  the  folks  thought  he'd  be  her  husband;  and  Jack 

says  that  gave  him  a  fright. 
You  won't  run  away  then,  as  he  did?  for  you're  not  a 

rich  man,  they  say. 
Pa  says  you're  as  poor  as  a  church-mouse.     Now  are 

you?    And  how  poor  are  they? 


84  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

**'  Ain't  you  glad  that  you  met  me?    Well,  I  am;  iont  I 
know  now  your  hair  isn't  red; 
But  what  there  is  left  of  it's  mousey,  and  not  what 

that  naughty  Jack  said. 
But  there!  I  must  go.     Sister's  coming.     But  I  wish  I 

could  wait,  just  to  see 
\i  she  ran  up  to  you  and  she  kissed  you  in  the  way 
that  she  used  to  kiss  Lee." 

Bret  Harte. 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE. 

DESCRIBED    IN    RHYMES    FOR    THE   NURSERY, 

"  How  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore?" 
My  little  boy  asked  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time; 
And  moreover  he  tasked  me 
To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 
Anon  at  the  word. 
There  first  came  one  daughter, 
And  then  came  another, 

To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother, 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar; 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 
So  I  told  them  in  rhyme. 
For  of  rhyrpes  I  had  store; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  ^5 

And  'twas  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 

That  so  I  should  sing; 
Because  I  was  Laureate 

To  them  and  the  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 
Its  rills  and  its  gills; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  lake. 

And  thence  at  departing, 

Awakening  and  starting, 

It  runs  through  the  reeds, 

And  away  it  proceeds, 

Through  meadow  and  glade, 

In  sun  and  in  shade, 
And  through  the  wood-shelter. 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry. 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry, 
Here  it  comes  sparkling. 
And  there  it  lies  darkling; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 
Till,  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent, 
Iv  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steeo  desceot 


FAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along, 
Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 
Rising  and  leaping, 
Sinking  and  creeping, 
Swelling  and  sweeping. 
Showering  and  springing; 
Flying  and  flinging, 
Writhing  and  wringing. 
Eddying  and  whisking. 
Spouting  and  frisking, 
Turning  and  twisting 
Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound: 
Smiting  and  fighting, 
A  sight  to  delight  in; 
Confounding,  astounding, 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting, 
Receding  and  speeding. 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing. 
And  dripping  and  skipping, 
And  hitting  and  splitting, 
And  shining  and  twining. 
And  rattling  and  battling, 
And  shaking  and  quaking, 
And  pouring  and  roaring. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  #? 

And  waving  and  raving, 
And  tossing  and  crossing, 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning, 
And  foaming  and  roaming, 
And  dinning  and  spinning, 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking. 
And  guggling  and  struggling. 
And  heaving  and  cleaving. 
And  moaning  and  groaning; 

And  glittering  and  frittering, 
And  gathering  and  feathering. 
And  whitening  and  brightening, 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 
And  thundering  and  floundering; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding, 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling. 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding. 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling, 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting. 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying. 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dancing, 
Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  boiling, 
And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and  beaming, 
/Vnd  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gushing. 


83  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slapping, 
And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirling, 
And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jumping 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing; 
And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending, 
Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blending, 
All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar, — 
And  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 

Robert  Southey. 


THE  OLD  ARM  CHAIR. 

I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  me  for  loving  the  old  arm  chair? 

I've  treasur'd  it  long  as  a  holy  prize, 

I've  bedew'd  it  with  tears,  and  embalm'd  it  with  sighs,; 

'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart; 

Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 

Would  ye  learn  the  spell? — a  mother  sat  there. 

And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm  chair. 

In  childhood's  home,  I  lingered  near 

The  hallow'd  seat  with  list'ning  ear; 

And  gentle  words  would  mother  give. 

To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide. 

With  truth  for  my  creed,  and  God  for  my  guide; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm  chair. 

I  sat  and  watched  her  many  a  day, 

When  her  eyes  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were  gray. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  89 

And  I  almost  worship'd  her  when  she  smiled, 
And  turn'd  from  her  bible  to  bless  her  child. 
Years  roll'd  on,  but  the  last  one  sped — 
My  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-star  fled; 
I  learned  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  the  old  arm  chair. 

'Tis  past;  'tis  past;  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow; 
'Twas  there  she  nursed  me,  'twas  there  she  died, 
And  mem'ry  flows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak. 
While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek; 
But  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm  chair. 

Eliza  Cook. 


HOHENLINDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight. 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed. 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade. 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 


9°  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell, 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smilp 
And  eloquence  of  beauty;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  91 

And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice:  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements — 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock. 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  snare,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good — 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 


92  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between — 

The  venerable  woods, — rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all. 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — ■ 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom — Take  the  wings 

Of  morning;  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 

Save  his  own  dashings — yet — the  dead  are  there; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men. 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years — matron  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  93 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side 

By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon;  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  vv^raps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  dov/n  to  pleasant  dreams. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


LAURENCE. 


He  came  in  the  glory  of  summer;  in  the  terror  of  sum- 
mer he  went; 

Like  a  blossom  the  breezes  have  wafted;  like  a  bough 
that  the  tempest  has  rent. 

His  blue  eyes  unclosed  in  the  morning,  his  brown  eyes 
were  darkened  at  morn; 

And  the  durance  of  pain  could  banish  the  beauty  where- 
with he  was  born. 

He  came — can  we  ever  forget  it,  while  the  years  of  our 
pilgrimage  roll  ? — 

He  came  in  thine  anguish  of  body,  he  passed  'mid  our 
anguish  of  soul. 

He  brought  us  a  pride  and  a  pleasure,  he  left  us  a  pathos 

of  tears, 
A  dream  of  impossible  futures,  a  glimpse  of  uncalendared 

vears. 


94  FAV0RIT2  PGEMO, 

His  voice  was  a  sweet  inspiration,  his  silence  a  sign  from 
afar; 

He  made  us  the  heroes  we  were  not,  he  left  us  the  cow- 
ards we  are. 

For  the  moan  of  the  heart  follows  after  his  clay,  with 
perpetual  dole, 

Forgetting  the  torture  of  body  is  lost  in  the  triumph  of 
soul. 

A  man  in  the  world  of  his  cradle,  a  sage  in  his  infantine 

lore, 
He  was  brave  in  the  might  of  endurance,  was  patient, — 

and  who  can  be  more  ? 
He  had  learned  to  be  shy  of  the  stranger,  to  welcome  his 

mother's  warm  kiss, 
To  trust  in  the  arms  of  his  father, — and  who  can  be  wiser 

than  this? 
The  lifetime  we  thought   lay  before   him,  already  was 

rounded  and  whole, 
In  dainty  completeness  of  body  and  wondrous  perfection 

of  soul. 

The  newness  of  love  at  his  coming,  the  freshness  of  grief 
when  he  went, 

The  pitiless  pain  of  his  absence,  the  effort  at  argued  con- 
tent, 

The  dim  eye  forever  retracing  the  few  little  footprints  he 
made, 

The  quick  thought  forev^^r  recalling  the  visions  that  never 
can  fade, — 

For  these  but  one  comfort,  one  answer^  in  faith's  or  philos 
ophy's  roll; 

Came  to  us  for  a  pure  little  body,  wcm  tt»  tjod  for  a 
glorified  soul.  Rossiter  Johnson. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  95 

CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT. 

England's  sun  was  slowly  setting  o'er  the  hilis  so  far 

away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the  close  of  one  sad 

day; 
And  the  last  rays  kiss'd  the  forehead  of  a  man  and 

maiden  fair, 
He  with  step  so  slow  and  weakened,  she  with  sunny, 

floating  hair; 
He  with  sad,  bowed  head,  and  thoughtful,  she  with  lips 

so  cold  and  white, 
Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur,  "  Curfew  must 

not  ring  to-night." 
**  Sexton,"  Bessie's  while  lips  faltered,  pointing  to  the 

prison  old, 
With  its  walls  so  dark  and  gloomy — walls  so  dark  and 

damp  and  cold — 
"  I've  a  lover  in  that  prison,  doom'd  this  very  night  to  die 
At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  and  no   earthly  help 

is  nigh. 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset,"  and  her  face  grew 

strangely  white. 
As  she  spoke  in   husky  whispers,  "Curfew  must  not 

ring  to-night." 
J  **  Bessie,"  calmly  spoke  the  sexton — every  word  pierced 

her  young  heart 
Like    a    thousand    gleaming    arrows,    like    a    deadly 

poisoned  dart — 
"  Long,    long   years    I've  rung  the   Curfew   from    that 

gloomy  shadowed  tower, 
Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  told  the  twii:;£;ht 

hour; 


Cj6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I  have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and  right, 
Now  I'm  old  I  will  not  miss  it;  girl,  the  Curfew  rings  ' 

to-night! " 
Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features,  stern  and  white 

her  thoughtful  brow, 
And   within   her  heart's   deep  centre,  Bessie  made   s 

solemn  vow; 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read,  without  a  tear 

or  sigh, 
"  At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew — Basil  Underwood  musi 

die." 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,  and  her  eyes 

grew  large  and  bright — 
One  low  murmur,  scarcely  spoken — "  Curfew  must  noi 

ring  to-night! " 
She  with  light  step  bounded  forward,  sprang  within 

the  old  church  door, 
Left  the  old  man  coming  slowly  paths  he'd  trod  so  oft 

before; 
Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but  with  cheek 

and  brow  aglow, 
Staggered  up  the  gloomy  tOwer,  where  the  bell  swung 

to  and  fro; 
Then  she  climbed  the  slimy  ladder,  dark,  without  one 

ray  of  light. 
Upward  still,  her  pale  lips  saying:  "Curfew  shall  not 

ring  to-night." 
She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder,  o'er  her  hangs  the 

great  dark  bell. 
And  the  awful  gloom  beneath  her,  like  the  pathway 

down  to  hell; 
See,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging,  'tis  the  hour  of 

Curfew  now. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  97 

And   the   sight   has   chilled  her   bosom,  stopped   her 

breath  and  paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring?     No,  never!  her  eyes  flash  with 

sudden  light, 
As  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly — "Curfew  shall  not 

ring  to-night! " 
Out  she  swung,  far  out,  the  city  seemed  a  tiny  speck  belo^v ; 
There,  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended,  as  the  bell 

swung  to  and  fro; 
And  the  half-deaf  sexton  ringing  (years  he  had  not 

heard  the  bell), 
And    he    thought    the   twilight   Curfew   rang  young 

Basil's  funeral  knell; 
Still  the  maiden    clinging  firmly,  cheek  and  brow  so 

pale  and  white, 
Stilled  her  frightened  heart's  wild  beating — "  Curfew 

shall  not  ring  to-night." 
It  was  o'er — the  bell  ceased  swaying,  and  the  maiden 

stepped  once  more 
Firmly  on  the  damp  old  ladder,  where  for  hundred 

years  before 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted;  and  what  she  this 

night  had  done 
Should   be   told   in  long  years  after — as  the  rays  of 

setting  sun 
Light  the  sky  with  mellow  beauty,  aged  sires  with 

heads  of  white 
Tell  their  children  why  the  Curfew  did  not  ring  that 

one  sad  night. 
O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell;  Bessie  saw  him, 

and  her  brow, 
Lately  white  with  sickening  terror,  glows  v.'ith  sudden 

beauty  now. 


98  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

At  his  foot  she  told  her  story,  showed  her  hands  all 

bruised  and  torn; 
And  her  sweet  young  face  so  haggard,  with  a  look  so 

sad  and  worn. 
Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity — lit  his  eyes  with 
misty  light; 
**Go,  your  lover  lives! "  cried  Cromwell;  "  Curfew  shall- 
not  ring  to-night." 

Rosa  Hartwick  Thorpe, 


RING  OUT,  WILD  BELLS. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die! 

Ring  out  the  Old,  ring  in  the  New; 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow; 

The  year  is  going — let  him  go; 
Ring  out  the  False,  ring  in  the  True' 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind! 

Ring  out  the  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife, 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  9^ 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out,  my  mournful  rhymes; 
But  ring  the  fuller  Minstrel  in! 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  Good! 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease. 

Ring  out  the  narrow  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peacei 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land — 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be! 

Lord  Tennysoiv, 


MY  MOTHER'S   PICTURE. 

O  that  those  lips  had  language!     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  saw  thee  last; 
Those  lips  are  thine, — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  mc; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child;  chase  all  thy  fears  away!' 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it!)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 


;«0  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear! 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 
Who  bid'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey, — not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, — 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother!  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, — 
Wretch,  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day; 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away; 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 
But  was  it  such  ? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown; 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more. 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern. 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return; 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived, — 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent. 


FAVORITE    POEMS.  Ifti 

I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot; 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, — 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm  and  velvet  cap, — 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short  lived  possession!  but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes,  less  deeply  traced: 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, — 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  gloweC 
All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, — 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes; 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may, — 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, — 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers — 
The  violet,  the  pink,  the  jessamine — 


102  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while — 

Wouldst   softly   speak,    and    stroke    my    head    and 

smile) — 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wash  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here  ? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart, — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 
But  no, — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark,  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed), 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle. 
Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile; 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay. 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift!  hast  reached  the  sh'^ve 
'^  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar:  " 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest. 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed. 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  l-'st; 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  roe  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  O,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he!—* 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  103 

From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise, — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell! — Time,  unrevoked,  has  run 
His  wonted  course;  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again, — 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft, — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

William  Cowper. 


CARDINAL  WOLSEY'S  FAREWELL  TO  POWER 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  my  greatness! 
This  is  the  state  of  man:  To-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hopes,  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him; 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost; 
And, — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a-ripening, — nips  his  root, 
■    And  then  he  falls  as  I  do.     I  have  ventured, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory. 
But  far  beyond  my  depth:  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  forever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye* 


i04  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I  feel  my  heart  new  opened:  O,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  who  hangs  on  princes'  favors! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer 
Never  to  hope  again. 

Shakspeare, 


HAPPINESS. 


There  are  in  this  rude,  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime, 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  everlasting  chime, 
Who  caii'ry  music  in  their  heart, 
Through  dusty  lane  and  wrangling  mart, 
Plying  their  daily  toil  with  busier  feet. 
Because  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain  repeat. 

John  Keble. 


EVELYN  HOPX 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  'n  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think; 
The  shutters  are  shut — no  light  may  pass, 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chink. 


FAVORITE  POEM^  10$ 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name- 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What!  your  soul  was  pure  and  true; 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew; 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow-mortals — naug^ht  beside? 

No,  indeed!  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make. 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love; 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake! 
Delayed,  it  may  be,  for  more  lives  yet. 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse  not  a  few; 
Much  is  to  learn,  and  much  to  forget. 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come — at  last  it  will — 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall  say, 
In  the  lower  earth — in  the  years  long  still — 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay; 
Why  your  hair  was  amber  I  shall  divine. 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red— 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine. 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  s^'vid. 


Io6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

1  have  lived,  I  shall  say,'  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes; 
Yet  one  thing — one — in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me — 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope! 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold- 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young 
smile, 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young 
gold. 
So,  hush!  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep; 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet,  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret!  go  to  sleep: 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 

Robert  Browning. 


JENNY  KISSED  ME  I 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief  !  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Saj'  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me; 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add — 
Jenny  kissed  me! 

Leigh  Hunt. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  lOj 


PHILLIDA  AND  CORYDON. 


In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
In  a  morn  by  break  of  day, 
With  a  troop  of  damsels  playing 
Forth  I  rode,  forsooth,  a-Maying, 
When  anon  by  a  woodside, 
Where  as  May  was  in  his  pride, 
I  espied,  all  alone, 
Phillida  and  Corydon. 


Much  ado  there  was,  God  wot! 

He  would  love  and  she  would  not; 

She  said,  "Never  man  was  true;" 

He  says,  "  None  was  false  to  you." 

He  said  he  had  loved  her  long; 

She  says,  "  Love  should  have  no  wrong; 


Corydon  would  kiss  her  then; 
She  says,  "  Maids  must  kiss  no  men 
Till  they  do  for  good  and  all." 
Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 
All  the  heavens  to  witness,  Truth 
Mcver  loved  a  truer  youth. 


Thus,  with  many  a  pretty  oath. 
Yea  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth, — « 
Such  as  silly  shepherds  use 
When  they  will  not  love  abuse, — 
Love,  which  had  been  long  deluded, 
Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded; 
And  Phillida,  with  garlands  gay. 
Was  made  the  lady  of  the  May. 

NicHQi-As  Breton. 


lo8  FAVORITE  POEMS, 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED    TO    ROBERT    AIKEN,    ESQ. 

"  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joj^s,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 

The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor." — Gray. 

My  loved,  my  honored,  much  respected  friend, 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end, 
My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise; 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 
Ah!  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there  I  weea 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angr}'-  sugh; 
The  short'ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh. 
The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose; 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, — 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  homeward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree; 
Th'  expectant  wee  things,  toddlin,  stacher  through. 
To  meet  their  dad  wi'  flichterin  noise  and  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle  blinkin  bonnily, 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  ■  i©^ 

His  clean  hearthstane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in, 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  ri!! 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town. 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 
In  youthful  bloom,  love  sparklin  in  her  e'e. 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw-new  gown, 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny  fee, 
Xo  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers; 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet; 
Each  tells  the  unco's  that  he  sees  or  hears; 
The  parents'  partial  eye  their  hopeful  years; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view; 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers. 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's^the  new; 
rne  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command. 
The  younkers'  a'  are  warned  to  obey; 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 
An'  ne'er  though  out  o'  sight  to  jauk  or  play; 
•'  An'  O,  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway! 
An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night! 
Leest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might; 
Th(,y  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright!" 


no  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

But  hark  I  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Teils  how  a  neebor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor, 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek; 
With  heart-struck,  anxious  care  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild,  worthless  rake. 

Wi*  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben; 
A  strappan  youth;  he  takes  the  mother's  eye; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
But  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an  sae  grave; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave. 

O  happy  love!  where  love  like  this  is  found! 
O  heartfelt  raptures!  bliss  beyond  compare! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
"  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening  gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth. 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 
Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  211 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts;  dissembling,  smooth, 
All  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled; 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child. 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  the  distraction  wild? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food; 
The  soupe  their  only  Hawkie  does  afford; 
That  yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood, 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained  kebbuck,  fell, 
An  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
/low  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face. 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace. 
The  big  ha'  Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And,  "  Let  us  worship  God! "  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise: 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim. 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild,  warbling  measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive  Mai'^'-s,  vrorthy  of  the  name; 
Or  noble  Eipi  ■  I.,    ts  the  heavenward  flame, 
The  sweetest  iar  o'  Scotia's  holy  lays, 
Compared  with  these  Italian  trills  are  tame; 
The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise, 
N-ae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 


112  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  jyriest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  strokes  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint  and  wailing  cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head, 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land; 
How  he  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's 
command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays: 
Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days, 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 
No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise. 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride. 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  «1JS 

Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart! 
The  power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
j\iid  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 
And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 
That  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest. 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best. 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
J!3,.jt  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs^ 
That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad; 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  *he  breath  of  kings; 
*'  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God;" 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind. 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined. 

O  Scotia,  my  dear,  my  native  soil, 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent. 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blessed  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content; 

And  O,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

Frc/n  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile; 

Tht  <i,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent. 


114  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  isle. 

O  Thou  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 
That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart; 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art, 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!) 
O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert: 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
fh  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard, 

Robert  Burns. 


*LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT." 

Lead,  kindly  light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on; 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home. 

Lead  Thou  me  on; 
Keep  Thou  my  feet;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene;  one  step's  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path;  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on; 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will.     Remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  has  blessed  me,  sure  It  still 
Will  lead  me  on 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  "5 

O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  an'*,  lost  awhile! 

Meanwhile,  along  the  narrow,  rugged  path 

Thyself  have  trod. 
Lead,  Savior,  lead  me  home  in  childlike  faith, 

Home  to  my  God, 
To  rest  forever  after  earthly  strife 
In  the  calm  light  of  everlasting  life. 

Cardinal  Newman. 


FARMER  JOHN. 

Home  from  his  journey  Farmer  John 

Arrived  this  morning  safe  and  sound. 
His  black  coat  off  and  his  old  clothes  on, 
"Now  I'm  myself,"  says  Farmer  John; 
And  he  thinks,  "I'll  look  around." 
Up  leaps  the  dog;  "  Get  down,  you  pup; 
Are  you  so  glad  you  would  eat  me  up  ? " 
The  old  cow  lows  at  the  gate  to  greet  him; 
The  horses  prick  up  their  ears  to  meet  him; 
"Well,  well,  old  Bay! 
Ha,  ha,  old  Gray! 
Do  you  get  good  feed  when  I  am  away  ? 

«  You  haven't  a  rib!  "  says  Farmer  John; 

"The  cattle  are  looking  round  and  sleek; 
The  colt  is  going  to  be  a  roan, 
'  And  a  beauty,  too:  how  he  has  grown! 

We'll  wean  the  calf  next  week  " 


tl6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Says  Farmer  John.     "  When  I've  been  off, 
To  call  you  again  about  the  trough, 
And  watch  you,  and  pet  you,  while  you  drink. 
Is  a  greater  comfort  than  you  can  think!" 

And  he  pats  old  Bay, 

And  he  slaps  old  Gray; 
"Ah,  this  is  the  comfort  of  going  away! 

**  For  after  all,"  said  Farmer  John, 

"  The  best  of  the  journey  is  getting  home! 
I've  seen  great  sights — but  would  I  give 
This  spot,  and  the  peaceful  life  I  live, 

For  all  their  Paris  and  Rome  ? 
These  hills  for  the  city's  stifled  air, 
And  big  hotels,  all  bustle  and  glare; 
Land  all  houses,  and  road  all  stones, 
That  deafen  your  ears  and  batter  your  bone«  ? 
Would  you,  old  Bay  ? 
Would  you,  old  Gray  ? 
That's  what  one  gets  by  going  away! 

"There  money  is  king,"  says  Farmer  John; 

"And  fashion  is  queen;  and  it's  mighty  queer 
To  see  how,  sometimes,  while  the  man 
Is  raking  and  scraping  all  he  can, 

The  wife  spends  every  5^ear, 
Enough  you  would  think  for  a  score  of  wivefc 
To  keep  them  in  luxury  all  their  lives. 
The  town  is  a  perfect  Babylon 
To  a  quiet  chap,"  says  Farmer  John. 
*'  You  see,  old  Bay, 
You  see,  old  Gray — 
I'm  wiser  than  when  I  went  awav. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  U? 

"I've  found  out  this,"  says  Farmer  John — 
"  That  happiness  is  not  bought  and  sold, 
And  clutched  in  a  life  of  waste  and  hurry, 
In  nights  of  pleasure  and  days  of  worry; 

And  wealth  isn't  all  in  gold, 
Mortgage  and  stocks  and  ten  per  cent, — 
But  in  simple  ways  and  sweet  content. 
Few  wants,  pure  hopes,  and  noble  ends. 
Some  lands  to  till,  and  a  few  good  friends, 
Like  you,  old  Bay, 
And  you,  old  Gray! 
That's  what  I've  learned  by  going  away." 

And  a  happy  man  is  Farmer  John — 

Oh,  a  rich  and  happy  man  is  he! 
He  sees  the  peas  and  pumpkins  growing, 
The  corn  in  tassel,  the  buckwheat  blowing, 

And  fruit  on  vine  and  tree; 
The  large,  kind  oxen  look  their  thanks 
As  he  rubs  their  foreheads  and  strokes  their  flanks; 
The  doves  light  round  him,  and  strut  and  coo; 
Says  Farmer  John,  "  I'll  take  you  too,- 
And  you,  old  Bay, 
And  you,  old  Gray! 
Next  time  I  travel  so  far  away!  " 

J.  T.  Trowbridge. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

One  more  unfortunate. 

Weary  of  breath. 
Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  deathi 


1X8  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 

Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing, — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly, 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her; 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now,  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 

Rash  and  undutiful; 
Past  all  dishonor. 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still  for  all  slips  of  hers. 

One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 

Oozing  so  clammily. 
Loop  up  her  tresse?^ 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses, 

Where  was  her  home? 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  II9 

Wlio  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun! 
O!  it  was  pitiful, 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed; 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence, 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement. 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 

But  not  the  dark  arch. 

Or  the  black  flowing  river; 


«30  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 

Out  of  the  world! 

Tn  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran, 
Over  the  brink  of  it; 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  man! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it. 

Then,  if  you  can. 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly. 

Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly! 
Dreadfully  staring. 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing, 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurned  by  contumely, 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  '2^ 

Burning  insanity, 

Cold  inhumanity, 
Into  her  rest, 

Cross  her  hands  humbly, 

As  if  praying  dumbly. 
Over  her  breast. 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior. 
And  leaving,  with  meekness. 

Her  sins  to  her  Savior. 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 

Tossing  about  on  the  stormy  sea, — 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast. 

The  sails  are  scattered  abroad  like  weeds; 

The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds; 

The  mighty  cables  and  iron  chains, 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains,— 

They  strain  and  they  crack;  and  hearts  like  stone 

Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down! — up  and  down! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's  crown. 

And  amidst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 

The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  home, — 

A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 


122  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  to  spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stormy  wing! 

O'er  the  deep! — o'er  t?ie  deep! 

Where  the  whale  and  the  shark  and  the  swordfish 

sleep, — 
Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  petrel  telleth  her  tale — in  vain; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Which  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storm  unheard! 
Ah!  thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still; 
Yet  he  never  falters, — so,  petrel,  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing! 

Bryan  W.  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall). 


MARY  ANN. 


She  is  right  weary  of  her  days. 

Her  long  lone  days,  of  dusty  kneeling; 

And  yet  "The  thoughts  o'  you,"  she  says, 
"Has  took  away  my  tired  feeling." 

"For  when  I've  done  the  room,"  she  says, 
"And  cleaned  it  all  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
A-leaning  on  my  broom,"  she  says, 
"  I  do  have  such  a  tired  feeling! " 

But  he,  the  other  laborer, 

Has  left  behind  his  moorland  shieling, 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1 23 

And  comes  at  last  to  comfort  her, 

Because  he  knows  her  "  tired  feeling." 

**I  know'd  you  was  to  come,"  she  says, 

"  For  why?  I  see'd  the  swallows  wheeling; 
And  that's  a  sign  to  me,  I  says; 
I  soon  shall  lose  my  tired  feeling. 

"I'll  ax  my  Misses'  leave,  I  says; 

I  canna  work;  my  heart  wants  healing: 
She  gave  it  me,  and  smiles  and  says, 
'Well,  that'll  CMve  your  tired  feeling.' 

*'And  so  it  will.     For  days  and  days 

I'm  strong  again  and  fit  for  kneeling; 
The  thoughts  o'  seeing  you,"  she  says, 
"  Has  took  away  my  tired  feeling." 

Arthur  J.  Munby. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

"  And  he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab,  over  against 
S#th-peor;  but  no  man  knoweth  of  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day." 

— Deut.  xxxiv.  6. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave; 
But  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er. 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 


Jt24  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth; 
But  no  man  heard  the  tramping, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth; 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun, — 

Noiselessly  as  the  springtime 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weavps, 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves, — 
So,  without  sound  of  music, 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept. 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain  crowii 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 

On  gray  Beth-peor's  height. 
Out  of  his  rocky  eyrie 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight. 
Perchance  the  lion,  stalking, 

Still  shuns  the  hallowed  spot; 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

Lo!  when  the  warrior  dieth. 

His  comrades  in  the  war. 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum 

Follow  the  funeral  car. 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

And  tell  his  battles  won, 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed^ 

While  peals  the  minute  gun. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  ^*5 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place 

With  costly  marble  dressed, 
In  the  great  minster  transept, 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior 
'  That  ever  buckled  sword; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 
Traced,  with  his  galden  pen. 
On  the  deathless  page  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 
And  had  he  not  high  honor? 

The  hill-side  for  his  pall. 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait, 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall; 
And  the  dark  rock  pines,  like  tossing  plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave; 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land, 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave,— 
In  that  deep  grave,  without  a  name, 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again,— O  wondrous  thought! 

Before  the  judgment  day; 
And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around, 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 
With  the  incarnate  Son  of  God. 


:X26  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

O  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land! 

O  dark  Beth-peor's  hill! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace, — 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  him  He  loved  so  well. 

C.  F.  Alexander, 


.♦,LIAM  TELL  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again! 

I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld. 

To  show  they  still  are  free.     Methinks  I  hear 

A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me, 

And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  to  his  home 

Again!     O  sacred  forms,  how  proud  ye  look! 

How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky! 

How  huge  you  are!  how  mighty  and  how  free! 

Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine,  whose  smil* 

Makes  glad,  whose  frown  is  terrible,  whose  forms, 

Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  Vv^ear 

Of  awe  divine.     Ye  guards  of  liberty! 

I'm  with  you  once  again! — I  call  to  you 

With  all  my  voice!     I  hold  my  hands  to  you 

To  show  they  still  are  free.     I  rush  to  you, 

As  though  I  could  embrace  you! 

Scaling  yonder  peak, 

I  saw  an  eagle  wheeling,  near  its  brow, 

O'er  the  abyss.     His  broad,  expanded  \i"ngs 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  127 

Lay  calm  and  motionless  upon  the  air, 

As  if  he  had  floated  there,  without  their  aid, 

By  the  sole  act  of  his  unlorded  will, 

That  buoyed  him  proudly  up!     Instinctively 

I  bent  my  bow;  yet  wheeled  he,  heeding  not 

The  death  that  threatened  him!     I  could  not  shoot? 

'Twas  liberty!     I  turned  my  bow  aside, 

And  let  him  soar  away. 

Once  Switzerland  was  free!     Oh,  with  what  pride 

I  used  to  walk  these  hills,  look  up  to  heaven, 

And  bless  God  that  it  was  so!     It  was  free! 

From  end  to  end,  from  cliff  to  lake,  'twas  free! 

Free  as  our  torrents  are,  that  leap  our  rocks 

And  plough  our  valleys  without  asking  leave; 

Or  as  our  peaks,  that  wear  their  caps  of  snow 

In  very  presence  of  the  regal  sun! 

How  happy  was  I  in  it  then!     I  loved 

Its  very  storms!     Ay,  often  have  I  sat 

In  my  boat,  at  night,  when  down  the  mountain  gorge 

The  wind  came  roaring — sat  in  it,  and  eyed 

The  thunder  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smiled 

To  see  him  shake  his  lightnings  o'er  my  head. 

And  think  I  had  no  master,  save  his  own! 

You  know  the  jutting  cliff,  round  which  a  track 
Up  hither  winds,  whose  base  is  but  the  brow 
To  such  another  one,  with  scanty  room 
For  two  to  pass  abreast?     O'ertaken  there 
By  the  mountain-blast,  I've  laid  me  flat  along; 
And  while  gust  followed  gust  more  furiousl)'', 
As  if  'twould  sweep  me  o'er  the  horrid  brink, 
And  I  have  thought  of  other  lands,  whose  storms 


•»28  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Are  summer-flaws  to  those  of  mine,  and  just 

Have  wished  me  there, — the  thought  that  mine  was 

free 
Has  checked  that  wish;  and  I  have  raised  my  head. 
And  cried,  in  thralldom,  to  that  furious  wind, 
"Blow  on! — This  is  the  land  of  liberty!  " 

Sheridan  Knowles. 


THE  CHRISM  AND  CROWN  OF  LOVE. 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 

The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write, 

And  ever  since  it  grew  more  clean  and  white. 

Slow  to  write — greetings;  quick  with  its  "Oh,  list," 

When  tlie  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 

I  could  not  wear  here  plainer  to  my  sight 

Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and,  half  missed. 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.     O,  beyond  meed! 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  with  love's  own  crown. 

With  sanctifying  sweetness  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect,  purple  state!  since  when,  indeed, 

I  have  been  proud  and  said,  "My  Love,  my  own." 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


LITTLE  GOLDENHAIR. 

Goldenhair  climbed  up  on  grandpapa's  knee,' 
Dear  little  Goldenhair,  tired  was  she, 
All  the  day  bu?y  as  busy  could  be. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1 29 

Up  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  'twas  light, 
Out  with  the  birds  and  butterflies  bright, 
Skipping  about  till  the  coming  of  night. 

Grandpapa  toyed  \vith  the  curls  on  her  head. 
"  What  has  my  darling  been  doing,"  he  said, 
"Since  she  rose  with  the  sun  from  her  bed  ?" 

"  Pitty  much,"  answered  the  sweet  little  one. 
*'  I  cannot  tell  so  much  things  I  have  done, 
Played  with  my  dolly  and  feeded  my  bun. 

"And  then  I  jumped  with  my  little  jump-rope, 
And  I  made  out  of  some  water  and  soap 
Bootiful  worlds,  mamma's  castles  of  hope. 

"Then  I  have  readed  in  my  picture-book, 
And  Bella  and  I,  we  went  to  look 
For  the  smooth,  little  stones  by  the  side  of  the 
brook. 

"  And  then  I  comed  home  and  eated  my  tea, 
And  I  climbed  up  on  grandpapa's  knee, 
And  I  jes  as  tired  as  tired  can  be." 

Lower  and  lower  the  little  head  pressed. 
Until  it  had  dropped  upon  grandpapa's  breast; 
Dear  little  Goldenhair,  sweet  be  thy  rest! 

We  are  but  children;  things  that  we  do 
Are  as  sports  of  a  babe  to  the  Infinite  view 
That  marks  all  our  weakness,  and  pities  it  too. 

God  grant  that  when  night  overshadows  our  way, 
And  we  shall  be  called  to  account  for  our  day, 
He  shall  find  us  as  guileless  as  Goldenhair's  lay? 


i30  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  O,  when  aweary,  may  we  be  as  blesc. 
And  sink  like  the  innocent  child  to  our  rest, 
And  feel  ourselves  clasped  to  the  Infinite  breast! 

Anonymous 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

Those  evening  bells!  those  evening  bells'. 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells, 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime. 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone; 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on, 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells? 

Thomas  Moork. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he: 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three; 
Good  speed!  "  cried  the  watch  as  the  gatebolts  undrew, 
Speed!  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through. 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
Aad  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  13I 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace — 
Neck  by  neck,  stride   by  stride,  never  changing  our 

place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit. 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  a  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 
At  Boom  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 
\t  Diiffeld  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 
And  from  Mechlen  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half- 
chime — 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with  "Yet  there  is  time! " 

At  Aerschot  up  leaped  of  a-sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past; 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray; 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance; 
And  the  thick,  heavy  spume-flakes,  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay  spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her; 


132  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

We'll  remember  at  Aix "  —  for  one  heard  the  quick 

wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  and  staggering 

knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank. 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh; 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright  stubble  like 

chaff; 
Till  over  by  Delham  a  dome-spire  sprang  white. 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 

"•How  they'll  greet  us!  " — and  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate-. 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall. 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my   horse   without 

peer — 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sung,  any  noise,  bad 

or  good. 
Till  at  length  into  Aix,  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round, 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  133 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news 
from  Ghent. 

Robert  Browning, 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled. 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver. 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead: — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory. 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet: — - 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go. 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe^-- 


^34  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 

Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  liHes,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fail, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all:— 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth 

On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain: — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding. 
The  generous  deed  was  done; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fadiagj 
No  braver  battle  was  won: — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray, 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 
Oj  the  winding  rivers  be  red; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  \%% 

They  banish  our  anger  forever, 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead^— 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

F.  M.  Finch. 


LITTLE  BREECHES. 

I  don't  go  much  on  religion, 

I  never  ain't  had  no  show; 
But  I've  got  a  middlin'  tight  grip,  sir, 

On  the  handful  o'  things  I  know. 
I  don't  pan  out  on  the  prophets, 

And  free-will,  and  that  sort  of  thing; 
But  I  b'lieve  in  God  and  the  angels. 

Ever  sence  one  night  last  spring. 

I  come  into  town  with  some  turnips, 

And  my  little  Gabe  come  along — 
No  four-year  old  in  the  country 

Could  beat  him  for  pretty  and  strong. 
Peart  and  chipper  and  sassy, 

Always  ready  to  swear  and  fight; 
And  I'd  larnt  him  to  chaw  terbacker, 

Jest  to  keep  his  milk-teeth  white. 

The  snow  come  down  like  a  blanket, 
As  I  passed  by  Taggart's  store; 

I  went  in  for  a  jug  of  molasses, 
And  left  the  team  at  the  door. 


1^6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

They  skeered  at  something  and  started-*^ 

I  heerd  one  little  squall, 
And  hell-to-split  over  the  prairie 

Went  team,  Little  Breeches,  and  all. 

Hell-to-split  over  the  prairie! 

I  was  almost  froze  with  skeer; 
But  we  rousted  up  some  torches, 

And  sarched  for  'em  far  and  near. 
At  last  we  struck  hosses  and  wagon, 

Snowed  under  a  soft  white  mound, 
Upsot,  dead  beat — but  of  little  Gabe 

No  hide  nor  hair  was  found. 

And  here  all  hope  soured  on  me, 
Of  my  fellow-critters'  aid — 

I  jest  flopped  down  on  my  marrow-bones, 
Crotch-deep  in  the  snow,  and  prayed. 


By  this  the  torches  was  played  out. 

And  me  and  Isrul  Parr 
Went  off  for  some  wood  to  a  sheep-fold 

That  he  said  was  somewhar  than 

We  found  it  at  last,  and  a  little  shed 

Whar  they  shut  up  the  lambs  at  night, 
We  looked  in,  and  seen  them  huddled  thea^ 

So  warm  and  sleepy  and  white. 
And  thar  sot  Little  Breeches,  and  chirped 

As  peart  as  ever  you  see, 
**  I  want  a  chaw  of  terbacker. 

And  that's  what's  the  matter  of  me." 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  137 

How  did  he  git  thar  ?     Angels. 

He  could  never  have  walked  in  that  storm, 
They  jest  scooped  down  and  toted  him 

To  whar  it  was  safe  and  warm. 
And  I  think  that  saving  a  little  child 

And  bringing  him  to  his  own, 
Is  a  derned  sight  better  business 

Than  loafing  around  the  Throne, 

John  Hay. 

BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord; 
He   is   trampling  out  the  vintage   where  the  grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored. 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift 

sword; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling 

camps; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and 

damps; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring 

lamps; 

His  days  are  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery   gospel,    writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel; 
"  As  ye  deal  with  My  contemners,  so  with  you  My  grace 

shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero  born  of  woman  crush  the  serpent  with  his 

heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 


138  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 

retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment 

seat; 
O,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my  feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me; 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 
free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 


HELVELLYN. 

[In  the  spring  of  1805,  a  young  gentleman  of  talents,  and  of  a 
most  amiable  disposition,  perished  by  losing  his  way  on  the  mountain 
Helvellyn.  His  remains  were  not  discovered  till  three  months  after- 
ward, when  they  were  found  guarded  by  a  faithful  terrier,  his  con- 
stant attendant  during  frequent  solitary  rambles  through  the  wilds  of 
Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.] 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn, 

Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleamed  misty  and 

wide: 
All  was  still,  save,  by  fits,  when  the  eagle  was  yelling, 

And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden  Edge  round   the  Red   Tarn  wa« 

bending. 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 
When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer  died. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1 39 

Dark   green   was   that   spot  'mid    the   brown    mountain 
heather, 

Where  the  Pilgrim  of  nature  lay  stretched  in  decay- 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandoned  to  weather, 

Till  the  mountain  winds  wasted  the  tenantless  clay ; 
Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended. 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite  attended, 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended, 

And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber  ? 

When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  didst  thou 
start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  nights  didst  thou  number 

Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  O,  was  it  meet  that — no  requiem  read  o'er  him, 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him. 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretched  before  him — 

Unhonored  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should  depart? 

When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peasant  has  yielded. 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted  hall. 

With  'scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall: 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches  aie 
gleaming; 

In  the  proudly  arched  chapel  the  banners  are  beaming; 

Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  People  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature, 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain  lamb. 

When,  wildered,  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in  stature, 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 


I40  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake  lying. 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying, 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Helvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


SONG  OF  SPRING. 

Laud  the  first  spring  daisies; 
Chant  aloud  their  praises; 
Send  the  children  up 
To  the  high  hill's  top; 
Tax  not  the  strength  of  their  young  hands 
To  increase  your  lands. 
Gather  the  primroses, 
Make  handfuls  into  posies; 

Take  them  to  the  little  girls  who  are  at  work  in  mills; 
Pluck  the  violets  blue, — 
Ah,  pluck  not  a  few! 

Knowest  thou  what  good  thoughts  from  Heaven  the 
violet  instills  ? 

Give  the  children  holidays 

(And  let  these  be  jolly  days), 

Grant  freedom  to  the  children  in  this  joyous  spring; 

Better  men,  hereafter. 

Shall  we  have,  for  laughter 

Freely  shouted  to  the  woods,  till  all  the  echoes  ring. 

Send  the  children  up 

To  the  high  hill's  top, 

Or  deep  into  the  wood's  recesses, 

To  woo  spring's  caresses. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  141 

See,  the  birds  together, 

In  this  splendid  weather, 

Worship  God  (for  he  is  God  of  birds  as  well  as  men); 

And  each  feathered  neighbor 

Enters  on  his  labor, — 

Sparrow,  robin,  redpole,  finch,  the  linnet,  and  the  wren. 

As  the  year  advances, 

Trees  their  naked  branches 

Clothe,  and  seek  your  pleasure  in  their  green  apparel. 

Insect  and  w41d  beast 

Keep  no  Lent,  but  feast; 

Spring    breathes    upon    the   earth,    and    their  joy's 

increased. 
And   the  rejoicing  birds   break  forth   in  one   loud 

carol. 

Ah,  come  and  woo  the  spring; 

List  to  the  birds  that  sing; 

Pluck  the  primroses;  pluck  the  violets; 

Pluck  the  daisies, 

Sing  their  praises; 

Friendship  with   the   flowers   some   noble    thought 

begets. 
Come  forth  and  gather  these  sweet  elves 
(More  witching  are  they  than  the  fays  of  old), 
Come  forth  and  gather  them  yourselves: 
Learn  of  these  gentle  flowers  whose  worth  is  more 

than  gold. 

Come,  come  into  the  wood; 
Pierce  into  the  bowers 
Of  these  gentle  flowers^ 
Which  not  in  solitude 


142  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Dwell,  but  with  each  other  keep  society:  j 

And  with  a  simple  piety, 

Are  ready  to  be  woven  into  garlands  for  the  good. 

Or,  upon  summer  earth, 

To  die,  in  virgin  worth; 

Or  to  be  strewn  before  the  bride, 

And  the  bridegroom  by  her  side. 

Come  forth  on  Sundays; 

Come  forth  on  Mondays; 

Come  forth  on  any  day; 

Children,  come  forth  to  play, — 

Worship  the  God  of  Nature  in  your  childhcKxl; 

Worship  Him  at  your  tasks  with  best  endeavor, 

Worship  Him  in  your  sports;  worship  him  ever; 

Worship  Him  in  the  wildwood; 

Worship  Him  amidst  the  flowers; 

In  the  greenwood  bowers; 

Pluck  the  buttercups,  and  raise 

Your  voices  in  his  praise!  Edward  Youl. 


THE  ONE-HOSS  SHAY; 

OR,    THE    deacon's    MASTERPIECE. 
A   LOGICAL   STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  fthay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way, 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then  of  a  sudden,  it — ah,  but  stay, 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  143 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five, 
Georgius  Seamdus  was  then  alive,— 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down. 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  earthquake  day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what. 
There  is  always  so?newhere  a  weakest  spot, — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 
la  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill. 
In  screw,  bolt,  thorough-brace, — lurking  still, 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will, — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without, — 
And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down  but  doesn't  wear  out 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacon's  do, 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  toW  yeou") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'N'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  itcouldnihreBk  daown; 
"  Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  **  't's  mighty  plain 
That  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain: 
'N'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz,  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  couldn't  be  split,  nor  bent,  nor  broke, — 


144  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

That  was  for  spokes,  and  floor  and  sills; 
He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees 
The  panels  of  whitewood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum," — 
Last  of  its  timber. — they  couldn't  sell  'em, 
Never  an  ax  had  seen  their  chips. 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw. 
Spring,  tire,  axle  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 
Thoroughbrace,  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through." — 
"There!  "  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she'll  dew! " 

Do!     I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren,— where  were  they? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake  day! 

Eighteen  hundred; — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten; — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came; — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1 45 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundreth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 

Take  it. — You're  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November, — the  Earthquake  day, — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  couldn't  be, — for  the  deacon's  art. 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thiUs, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more. 
And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out! 


First  of  November,  'fifty-five! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"  Huddup!  "  said  the  parson. — Off  went  they. 


146  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text,— » 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  the — Moses  was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, — 

Close  by  the  meetin'-house  on  the  hill. 

First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill. 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meeti^  '-house  clock,-''^- 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock! — 

What  do  you  think  the  parson  found 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  i 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  m  )und^ 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  grour.  ., 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dun-3, 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

Ead  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  sha}-. 
Logic  is  logic.     That's  all  I  say. 

Oliver  Wendell  Hglmes. 


A  CANADIAN  BOAT  SONG. 

Et  rctnigem  cantus  hortatur. — Quintilian. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime. 
Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim. 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn 
Row,  brothers,  row!  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  U3 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl:— 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curL 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore 
Oh!  sweetly  we'll  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow!  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past! 

Utawa's  tide!  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  afloat  o'er  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle,  hear  our  prayers — 
Oh!  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow!  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past! 

Thomas  Mooml 


LITTLE  PHIL. 

"  Make  me  a  headboard,  mister,  smooth  and  painted,  you 

see: 
Our  ma  she  died  last  winter,  and  sister  and  Jack  and  me, 
Last  Sunday,  could  hardly  find  her,  so  many  new  graves 

about. 
And  Bud  cried  out,  *  We've  lost  her,'  when  Jack  gave  a 

little  shout. 
We  have  worked  and  saved  all  winter — been  hungry 

sometimes,  I  own — 
But  we  hid  this  much  from  father  under  the  old  door- 
stone. 
He  never  goes  there  to  see  her;  he  hated  her;  scolded 

Jack 
When  he  heard  us  talking  about  her,  and  wishing  she'd 

come  back. 


148  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

But  up  in  the  garret  we  whisper,  and  have  a  good  rime 

to  cry. 
Our  beautiful  mother  who  kissed  us,  and  wasn't  afraid  to 

die: 
Put  on  it  that  she  was  forty,  in  November  she  went  away, 
That  she  was  the  best  of  mothers,  and  we  haven't  forgot  to 

pray; 
And  we  mean  to  do  as  she  taught  us — be  loving  and  true 

and  square, 
To  work  and  read,  to  love  her,  till  we  go  to  her  up  there. 
Let  the  board  be  white,  like  mother " — the  small  chin 

quivered  here. 
And  the  lad  coughed  something  under,  and  conquered  a 

rebel  tear. 
"  Here  is  all  we  could  keep  from  father — a  dollar  and 

thirty  cents; 
The  rest  he  has  got  for  coal  and  flour,  and  partly  to  pay 

the  rents." 
Blushing  the  white  lie  over,  and  dropping  the  honest  eyes, 
"What  is  the  price  of   headboards,  with  writing,  and 

handsome  size?" 
"  Three  dollars  ? " — a  young  roe,  wounded,  just  falls  with 

a  moan;  and  he. 
With  a  face  like  the  ghost  of  his  mother,  sank  down  on 

his  tattered  knee, 
"  Three  dollars!  and  we  shall  lose  her,  next  winter  in  the 

graves  and  the  snow!  " 
But  the  boss  had  his  arms  about  him,  and  cuddled  the 

head  of  tow 
Close  up  to  the  great  heart's  shelter,  and  womanly  tears 

fell  fast: 
"  Dear  boy,  you  shall  never  lose  her.     O,  cling  to  your 

sacred  past! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1 49 

Come  to-morrow,  and  bring  your  sister  and  Jack,  and 

the  board  shall  be 
The  best  that  the  shop  can  furnish;  then  come  here  and 

live  with  me." 

****** 

When  the  orphans  loaded  their  treasure  on  the  rugged 

old  cart  next  day. 
The  surprise  of  a  footboard  varnished,  with  all  that  their 

love  could  say; 
And  "  Edith  St.  John,  Our  Mother  !  "    Baby  Jack  gave  his 

little  shout, 
And  Bud,  like  a  mountain  daisy,  went  dancing  her  doll 

about. 
But  Phil  grev/  white  and  trembled,  and  close  to  the  boss 

he  crept. 
Kissing  him  like  a  woman,  shivered  and  laughed  and  wept: 
"  Do  you  think,  my  benefactor,  in  heaven  that  she'//  be 

glad  ?  '• 
'"Not  as  glad  as  you  are,  Philip.     But  finish  this  job,  my 

lad."  Mrs.  Helen  Rich. 


THE  BELLS. 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 
Silver  bells — 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle. 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 


S50  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 

From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells. 
Golden  bells! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight 
From  the  molten-golden  notes! 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells! 
How  it  swells! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future!  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
Brazen  bells! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  151 

In  che  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher. 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor. 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
0*i  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
"^et  the  ear,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging. 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells. 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling. 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 
bells— 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the'^lls,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
'  In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells! 


152  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 
Iron  bells! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody 
compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats, 

Is  a  groan: 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling. 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman— 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human-« 

They  are  Ghouls! 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

A  paean  from  the  bells! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbincr  of  the  bell9«~ 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  153 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells 
Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

E.  A.  PoE. 


OFT,  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT. 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me: 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years. 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimmed  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  linked  together, 
I've  i  een  around  me  fall 

Li  :e  leaves  in  v.-jntrv  weather. 


^54  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled. 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

Thomas  Moore. 


WELCOME  TO  THE   NATIONS. 

SUNG  AT  PHILADELPHIA,  JULY  4,  1876. 

Bright  on  the  banners  of  lily  and  rose, 
Lo,  the  last  sun  of  our  century  sets! 

Wreathe  the  black  cannon  that  scowled  on  our  foes, 
All  but  her  friendships  the  Nation  forgets — 
All  but  her  friends  and  their  welcome  forgets! 

These  are  around  her.     But  where  are  her  foes  ? 
Lo,  while  the  sun  of  her  century  sets, 
Peace  with  her  garlands  of  lily  and  rose! 

"Welcome!  a  shout  like  the  war  trumpet's  swell 
Wakes  the  wild  echoes  that  slumber  around; 

Welcome!  it  quivers  from  Liberty's  bell; 
Welcome!  the  walls  of  her  temple  resound. 
Hark!  the  gray  walls  of  her  temple  resound; 

Fade  the  far  voices  o'er  hillside  and  dell; 
Welcom.e,  still  whisper  the  echoes  around; 
Welcome,  still  trembles  on  Liberty's  bell. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  155 

Thrones  of  the  Continents!  Isles  of  the  Sea! 

Yours  are  the  garlands  of  peace  we  entwine; 
Welcome  once  more  to  the  land  of  the  free, 
Shadowed  alike  by  the  palm  and  the  pine; 
Softly  they  murmur,  the  palm  and  the  pine, 
*'  Hushed  is  our  strife,  in  the  land  of  the  free;  " 
Over  your  children  their  branches  entwine,' 
Thrones  of  the  Continents!  Isles  of  the  Sea! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  ETERNAL  YEARS. 

How  shalt  thou  bear  the  Cross  that  now 

So  dread  a  weight  appears  ? 
Keep  quietly  to  God,  and  think 

Upon  the  eternal  years. 

Austerity  is  little  help, 

Although  it  somewhat  cheers; 

Thine  oil  of  gladness  is  the  thought 
Of  the  Eternal  Years. 

Set  hours  and  written  rule  are  good, 
Long  prayer  can  lay  our  fears: 

But  it  is  better  calm  for  thee 
To  count  the  Eternal  Years. 

Rites  are  as  balm  unto  the  eyes, 

God's  word  unto  the  ears: 
But  He  will  have  thee  rather  brood 

Upon  the  Eternal  Years. 


156  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Full  many  things  ar.e  good  for  souls 
In  proper  times  and  spheres; 

Thy  present  good  is  in  the  thought 
Of  the  Eternal  Years. 

Thy  self-upbraiding  is  a  snare, 
Though  meekness  it  appears; 

More  humbling  is  it  far  for  thee 
To  face  the  Eternal  Years. 

Brave  quiet  is  the  thing  for  thee, 
Chiding  thy  scrupulous  fears; 

Learn  to  be  real,  from  the  thought 
Of  the  Eternal  Years. 

Bear  gently,  suffer  like  a  child. 

Nor  be  ashamed  of  tears; 
Kiss  the  sweet  Cross,  and  in  thy  heart 

Sing  of  the  Eternal  Years. 

Thy  Cross  is  quite  enough  for  thee, 

Though  little  it  appears; 
For  there  is  hid  in  it  the  weight 

Of  the  Eternal  Years. 

And  knowst  thou  not  how  bitterness 

An  ailing  spirit  cheers  ? 
Thy  medicine  is  the  strengthening  thought 

Of  the  Eternal  Years. 

One  Cross  can  sanctify  a  soul, 
Late  saints  and  ancient  seers 

Were  what  they  were,  because  they  mused 
Upon  the  Eternal  Years. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  157 

Pass  not  from  flower  to  pretty  flower; 

Time  flies;  and  judgment  nears; 
Go!  make  thy  honey  from  the  thought 

Of  the  Eternal  Years. 

Death  will  have  rainbows  round  it,  seen 

Through  calm  contrition's  tears, 
If  tranquil  hope  but  trims  her  lamp 

At  the  Eternal  Years. 

Keep  unconstrain'dly  in  this  thought, 
Thy  loves,  hopes,  smiles,  and  tears! 

Such  prison-house  thine  heart  will  make 
Free  of  the  Eternal  Years. 

A  single  practice  long-sustained 

A  soul  to  God  endears: 
This  must  be  thine — to  weigh  the  thought 

Of  the  Eternal  Years. 

He  practices  all  virtue  well, 

Who  his  own  Cross  reveres, 
And  lives  in  the  familiar  thought 

Of  the  Eternal  Years. 

Frederick  William  Faber. 


GOD  IS  LOVE. 

God  is  love:  His  mercy  brightens 
All  the  .path  in  which  we  rove: 

Bliss  He  wakes,  and  woe  He  lightens; 
God  is  wisdom,  God  is  love. 


158  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Chance  and  change  are  busy  ever^ 
Man  decays,  and  ages  move; 

But  His  mercy  waneth  never, 
God  is  wisdom,  God  is  love. 


E'en  the  hour  that  darkest  seemeth 
Will  His  changeless  goodness  prove; 

From  the  mist  His  brightness  streameth, 
God  is  wisdom,  God  is  love. 

He  with  earthly  cares  entwineth 

Hope  and  comfort  from  above. 
Everywhere  His  glory  shineth; 

God  is  wisdom,  God  is  love. 

Sir  John  BowrinGj. 


THE  RAVEN. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak 
and  weary. 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 
lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a 
tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber 

door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door; 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  ISv, 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 

And  each  separate,   dying  ember   wrought  its  ghost 

upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow;  vainly  I  had  sought  to 

borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow,  sorrow  for  the  lost 

Lenore, 
For  the   rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore, 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of   each   purple 
curtain 
Thrilled  me,  filled  me,  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt 
before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 
repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door. 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 
door; 
,  This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"   said  I,   "or  madam,   truly  your  forgiveness   I 
implore; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 
rapping. 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you."     Here  I  opened 
wide  the  door; — 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 


l6o  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Deep    into  that  darkness  peering,   long  I  stood  there 
wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 
dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no 
token, 
And  the  only  word   there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "Lenore; " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 
word,  "  Lenore." 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 
burning. 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than 
before. 
"Surely,"  said  I,  "surely,  that  is  something  at  my  win- 
dow lattice; 
Let  me  see  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  exploru; 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore; 
'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flfirt 
and  flutter. 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven,  of  the  saintly  days  of 
yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  a  minute  stopped 
or  staid  he; 
But  with    mien    of   lord  or  lady,   perched  above  my 

chamber  door. 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chambci 
door; 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  l6l 

Then  this  ebon-  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smil- 
ing, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, 
'•  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said, 
"  art  sure  no  craven. 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering  from  the 

Nightly  shore. 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Pluto- 
nian shore." 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 
plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy  bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  cham- 
ber door, 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  cham- 
ber door, 

With  such  name  as  "Evermore." 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke 
only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 
outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered;  not  a  feather  then  he 
fluttered; 
Till  I   scarcely   more  Ihan  muttered,   "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have 
flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 


1 62  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store, 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful 

disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore, 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden 
bore. 

Of  'Never — nevermore.'  " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smil  • 
ing, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and 
bust  and  door; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  link' 
ing 
Fancy  unto  fancv,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  o<. 

yore. 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominou?. 
bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking,  "Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing. 
To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery   eyes   now  burned   into   my 
bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  re 

dining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated 
o'er. 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight  gloat- 
ing o'er, 

^he  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore. 


FAVORITE  FOExMb.  :05 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an 
unseen  censer, 
Swung   by  Seraphim   whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the 
tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath   lent  thee  by  these 
angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 

Lenore! 
Quaff,  O  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost 
Lenore!  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore.'' 

"Prophet! "  said  I,  "thing  of  evil! — prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil! 

Whether  tempter  sent,  or  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted. 

On    this   home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I 

implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me — tell  me,  I 
implore!  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

''■  Prophet!  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil — prophet  still,  if  bird 
or  devil! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we 
both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant 
Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore — 
Clasp   a   rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels 
name  Lepore  ? " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 


1 64  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

"Be  that  word  our   sign  of   parting,  bird  or  fiend f"  I 
shrieked,  upstarting — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plu- 
tonian shore  I 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath 
spoken! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken! — quit  the  bust  above 

my  door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door!  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

dreaming; 

And    the   lamplight   o'er   him    streaming   throws    his 

shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 
on  the  floor. 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore! 

E.  A.  PoE. 


SONG  OF  THE  BROOK. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern: 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  ferns, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down. 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges; 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridsres. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  I^S 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flov^ 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles: 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow 

I  chatter,  chatter  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel. 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever.  \ 


l66  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I  Steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots; 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows, 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

Lord  TENNYsoif. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MARMION. 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle; 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied: 
'Twas  vain: — For  Fortune  on  the  right. 
With  fickle  smile,  cheer'd  Scotland's  fight, 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 


FAVORITE  FOEM^.  1 67 

The  Howard's  lion  fell; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle  yell. 
The  border  slogan  rent  the  sky! 
"  A  Home!  "  "  a  Gordon!  "  was  the  cry: 
Loud  were  the  clanging  blows; 
Advanced, — forced  back, — now  low,  now  high, 
The  pennon  sunk  and  rose; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds  and  sail, 

It  wavered  'mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear; 
"  By  Heaven  and  all  its  saints  I  swear, 
I  will  not  see  it  lost! 
Fitz  Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads  and  patter  prayer, — 

I  gallop  to  the  host." 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Follow'd  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth  with  desperate  charge, 
Made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large, — 

The  rescued  banner  rose, — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around, 
Like  pine-tree,  rooted  from  the  ground. 

It  sunk  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too: — Yet  staid, 
As  loath  tc  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 
Blood-shot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread. 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 
Lord  Marmion's  steed  rush'd  by; 


1 68  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast, 
To  mark  he  Avould  return  in  haste, 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 

Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels. 
Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone; 
Perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone — 
The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels; — 
She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roared,  "  Is  Wilton  there?" — 
They  fly,  or  madden'd  by  despair, 
Fight  but  to  die,— ".Is  Wilton  there?"— 
With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore, 
And  in  their  arms  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand; 
His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand; 
Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 
With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat. 
The  falcon,  crest  and  plumage  gone. 
Can  this  be  haughty  Marmion!     *     *     * 
Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace. 
And  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face. 
Said — "By  Saint  George,  he's  gone! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head! 
Good-night  to  Marmion." 
"  Unnurtured  Blount!  thy  brawling  cease; 
He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace;  "peace!" 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1 69 

When,  doff'd  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 
Around,  gane  Marmion  wildly  stare: — 
**  Where's  Harry  Blount?     Fitz  Eustace  where? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare! 
Redeem  my  pennon, — charge  again! 
Cry, — 'Marmion  to  the  rescue! ' — Vain! 
Last  of  my  race  on  battle  plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again! 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's — fly, 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet  ring: 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring, — 
Fitz  Eustace,  to  Lord  Surry  high; 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field: 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield: 
Edmund  is  down: — my  life  is  reft; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host 
Or  victory  and  England's  lost, — 
Must  I  bid  twice? — hence,  varlets!  fly, 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die!  " 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay; 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moau. 
And  half  he  murmured, — "  Is  there  none. 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst. 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 

Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring. 
To  slake  my  dying  thirst!  " 

O  woman  in  our  hours  of  ease. 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 


I70  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou! — 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 
When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran: 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears — 

The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 
Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side, 
But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Where  waged  the  war,  a  dark  red  tide 
Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  ? — behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond  spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say. 
Drink:  weary:  pilgrim:  drink:  and:  pray: 
For:  the:  kind:  soul:  of:  Sybil:  Gray: 
Who:  built:  this:  cross:  and:  well. 

She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied. 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied, 
A  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head — 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fraught. 
To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Oeep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And  as  she  stoop'd  his  brow  to  lave, — 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  IJI 

*•  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 

"  Or  injured  Constance  bathes  my  head  ?" 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose, — 
"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 

Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare; 

Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare!  " — 
"Alas!  "  she  said;  "the  while, — 

Oh!  think  of  your  immortal  weal! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal: 

She— died  at  Holy  Isle."— 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground 

As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound; 

Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide, 
In  torrents  from  his  wounded  side. 
"Then  it  was  truth,"  he  said, — "I  knew 

That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true — 

I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 

The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs 
Would  spare  me  but  a  day! 

For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 

And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 
Might  bribe  him  to  delay. 

It  may  not  be! — this  dizzy  trance — 

Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance. 

And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand, 

A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 

Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk. 

Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

With  fruitless  labor,  Clara  bound. 

And  strove  to  staunch  the  gushing  wound* 

The  monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 

Exhausted  all  the  church's  prayers; 


172  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 
A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear, 
And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear, 
For  that  she  ever  sung: 
"  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  dowti  by  the  flying, 

Where  mingles  war's  rattle  ivith  the  groans  ofthedyit^t 
So  the  notes  rung; — 
"Avoid  thee.  Fiend! — with  cruel  hand, 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand! 
O  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine; 
O  think  on  faith  and  bliss! — 

By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 

And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 
But  never  aught  like  this." — 
The  war;  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now,  trebly  thundering,  swell 'd  the  gale, 

And^ — Stanley!— was  the  cry; — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  gla2ing  eye: 
With  dying  hand  above  his  head. 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 
And  shouted  "Victory! — 
Charge,  Chester,  charge!     On,  Stanley,  on!" 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

Walter  Scott. 

THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT 

I'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 
On  a  bright  May  morning  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


FA  VORITE  POEMS.  1 73 

The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green, 
And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 

And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 
And  the  love  light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day's  as  bright  as  then; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again. 

But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 
And  your  warm  breath  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  listening  for  the  words 

You  never  more  may  speak, 

'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 
The  village  church  stands  near, — 

The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, 
I  see  the  spire  from  here. 

But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  break  your  rest, 

Where  I've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends; 

But,  oh,  they  love  the  better 
The  few  our  Father  sends. 

And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessing  and  my  pride; 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now. 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 


ty4  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary  kind  and  true, 
But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I'm  going  to. 

They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 
And  the  sun  shines  always  there, 

But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 
Were  it  fifty  times  less  fair. 

Lady  Dufferin. 


THE  WELCOME. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning; 

Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  without  warning: 

Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you. 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore  you! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted; 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted; 

The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers  don't  sever'." 

I'll  pull  you  sweet  flowers  to  wear  if  you  choose  them, 
Or,  after  you've  kissed  them,  they'll  lie  on  my  bosom; 
I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire  you; 
I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire  you. 
Oh!  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer- vexed  farmer, 
Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor; 
I'll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above  me. 
Then,  wandering,  I'll  wish  you  in  silence  to  love  me. 

We'll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the  eyrie; 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the  fairy; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1 75 

We'll  look  on  the  stars  and  we'll  list  to  the  river, 

Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can  give  her. 

Oh !  she'll  whisper  you, — "  Love  as  unchangeably  beaming, 

And  trust,  when  in  secret  most  tunefully  streaming 

Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall  quiver, 

As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's  river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning; 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  without  warning; 
Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you. 
And  the  oftener  you  come  the  more  I'li  adore  you! 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever. 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers  don't  sever!  " 

Thomas  Davis. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  o'  lang  syne .'' 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  take  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syae. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 


3:76  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  frere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid  wallie-waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stoup, 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine; 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne.  Robert  Burns- 


THE  TWO  MYSTERIES. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room,  in  its  white  coffin,  lay  the  dead  cnuu,  a 
nephew  of  the  poet.  Near  it,  in  a  great  chair,  sat  Walt  Whitman, 
surrounded  by  little  ones,  and  holding  a  beautiful  little  girl  on  his  lap. 
The  child  looked  curiously  at  the  spectacle  of  death  and  then  inquir- 
ingly into  the  old  man's  face.  "  You  don't  know  what  it  is,  do  yoU; 
my  dear  ?  "  said  he,  adding,  "  we  don't  either," 

We  know  not  what  it  is,  dear,  this  sleep  so  deep  and  still. 
The  folded  hands,  the  awful  calm,  the  cheek  so  pale  and 

chill; 
The  lids  that  will  not  lift  again,  though  we  may  call  and 

call, 
The  strange,  white  solitude  of  peace  that  settles  over  ail. 

We  know  not  what  it  means,  dear,  this  desolate  heart-pain; 
This  dread  to  take  our  daily  way,  and  walk  in  it  again*, 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  3  77 

We  know  not  to  what  other  sphere  the  loved  who  leave 

us  go, 
Nor  why  we're  left  to  wonder  still;  nor  why  we  do  not 

know. 

But  this  we  know:  Our  loved  and  dead,  if  they  should 

come  this  day — 
Should  come  and  ask  us,  "  What  is  life  ? "  not  one  of  us 

could  say. 
Life  is  a  mystery  as  deep  as  ever  death  can  be; 
Yet  oh,  how  sweet  it  is  to  us,  this  life  we  live  and  see! 

Then  might  they  say — these  vanished  ones — and  blessed 

is  the  thought! 
"  So  death  is  sweet  to  us,  beloved!  though  we  may  tell  ye 

naught; 
We  may  not  tell  it  to  the  quick — this  mystery  of  death — 
Ye  may  not  tell  us,  if  ye  would,  the  mystery  of  breath." 

The  child  who  enters  life  comes  not  with  knowledge  or 

intent; 
So  those  who  enter  death  must  go  as  little  children  sent. 
Nothing  is  known.     But  I  believe  that  God  is  overhead: 
And  as  life  is  to  the  living,  so  death  is  to  the  dead. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 


J 78  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall,   , 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wal/ 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind;  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then. 
Bowed  with  her  four  score  years  and  ten. 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town. 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced — the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt!  "     The  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast; 
"  Fire!  "     Out  blazed  the  rifle  blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  17? 

Quick  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window  sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head. 
But  spare  your  country's  flag!  "  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies,  like  a  dog!     March  on! "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet. 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tossed 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host; 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well, 

And  through  the  hill  gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good  night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her!  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake  on  Stonewall's  bier! 


2 So  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave! 

Peace,  and  order,  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law, 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town! 

J.  G.  Whittibjl. 


"NIGGER  MIGHTY  HAPPY." 

Hog  start  a-runnin'  when  de  overseer  callin'; 
Whipperwill  holler  when  de  jew-draps  fallin'; 
Duck  keep  .a-quakin'  when  de  hard  rain  po'in'; 
Crows  flock  togedder  when  de  young  corn  growin'; 
Pig  gwine  to  squeal  when  de  milk-maid  churnin'; 
Nigger  mighty  happy  when  de  blackberries  tumin'! 

Squ'el  gc  to  jumpin'  when  de  scaly-barks  comin'; 
Bee-martin  sail  when  de  honey-bee  hummin'; 
Lean  horse  nicker  when  de  pumpkin-vine  spreadin'; 
Rabbit  back  his  ear  when  de  cabbage-stalk  headin*; 
Rooster  start  a-crowin'  when  de  broad  day  breakin'; 
Nigger  mighty  happy  when  de  hoe-cake  bakin'; 

Big  fish  flutter  when  he  done  cotch  de  cricket; 
Bullfrog  libely  when  he  singin'  in  de  thicket; 
Mule  git  slicker  when  de  plantin'  time  over; 
Colt  mighty  ga'ly  when  you  turn  him  in  de  clover; 
An'  it  come  mighty  handy  to  de  nigger  man  nater 
When  he  soppin'  in  de  gravy  wid  a  big  yam  'tater! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  l8l 

Black-snake  waitin'  while  de  old  hen  hatchin'; 
Sparrer-hawk  lookin'  while  de  little  chickens  scratchin'; 
Big  owl  jolly  when  de  little  bird  singin'; 
'Possum  gwine  to  clam  whar  de  ripe  'simmons  swingin'; 
Nigger  mighty  happy — ef  he  aint  wuf  a  dollar — 
When  he  startin'  out  co'tin'  wid  a  tall  stan'in'  collar! 

J.  A.  Macon. 


THE  MARSEILLES  HYMN. 

Ye  sons  of  freedom,  wake  to  glory! 

Hark!  hark!  what  myriads  bid  you  rise! 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsires'^hoary, 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischiefs  breeding. 
With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band. 
Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 
While  peace  and  liberty  lie  bleeding  ? 
To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave: 

Th'  avenging  sword  unsheathe; 
March  on!  march  on!  all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death. 

Now,  now  the  dangerous  storm  is  rolling. 

Which  treacherous  kings  confederate  raise; 
The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose  are  howling. 

And  lo!  our  fields  and  cities  blaze; 
And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 

While  lawless  force,  with  guilty  stride, 
Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide, 
With  crimes  and  blood  his  hands  embruing, 
To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave. 


1 8a  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

O  Liberty!  can  man  resign  thee, 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame? 
Can  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bars  confine  thee! 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame  ? 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing 
That  falsehood's  dagger  tyrants  wield, 
But  freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave. 

ROUGET   DB    \l  teLE. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRiO  DE. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  death, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!  "  he  said 
Into  the  valley  of  death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldiers  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


FAVORITE  POEMS,  1*3 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd; 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke. 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke, 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd, 
Then  they  rode  back — but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell; 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

L#€ft  of  six  hundred. 


1 84  FAVORITE  POEMS, 


When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade! 

Noble  six  hundred! 

Lord  Tennyson. 


COULD  WE  BUT  KNOW. 

Could  we  but  know 
The  land  that  ends  our  dark,  uncertain  travel, 

Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and  meadows  low — 
Ah!  if  beyond  the  spirit's  inmost  cavil 

Aught  of  that  country  could  we  surely  know — 
Who  would  not  go  ? 

Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angel's  high  imagined  chorus, 

Or  catch,  betimes,  with  wakeful  eyes  and  clear, 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before  us, 

With  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see  and  hear, 
Ah!  who  would  fear? 

Were  we  quite  sure 
To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left  us  lonely, 
Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream  as  pure. 
To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  love  lit  only — 
This  weary  mortal  coil,  were  we  quite  sure, — 
Who  would  endure  ? 

E.  C.  Stedman. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  185- 

IVRY. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are! 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre! 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance. 

Through  thy  corn-fields  green  and  sunny  vines,  O  pleas- 
ant land  of  France! 

And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the 
waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning 
daughters; 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy; 

For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy 
walls'  annoy. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance 
of  war! 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Oh!  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn 
of  day, 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  league  drawn  out  in  long  array; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish 
spears. 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our 
land; 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his 
hand; 

And  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  em- 
purpled flood. 

And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate 
of  war. 

To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre 


1 86  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  all  in  his  armor  drest; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant 

crest. 
He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 

and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing 

to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout:  God  save  our  lord 

the  king! 
*'  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may — 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray — 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine  amidst  the 

ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet  of  Navarre," 

Hurrah!  the  foes  are  moving.     Hark  to  the  mingled  din, 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,   and  roaring 

culverin. 
The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain. 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 
Now  by  the   lips  of   those  ye  love,  fair   gentlemen  of 

France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies — upon  them  with  the  lance! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears 
in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow- 
white  crest ; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed  while,  like  a  guid- 
ing star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Na- 
varre. 


IfAVORITE  POEMS.  1 8/ 

N'ow,  God  be  praised,  the   day  is  ours:   Mayenne  hath. 

turned  his  rein; 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter;  the  Flemish  count  ia 

slain; 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay 

gale; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and 

cloven  mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all  along  our  van^ 
Remember  Saint  Bartholomew!  was  passed  from  man  to 

man. 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry — "  No  Frenchman  is  my  foer 
Down,  down,  with  every  foreigner;  but  let  your  brethren 

go"— 
Oh!  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war. 
As    our    sovereign    lord.    King   Henry,   the   soldier  of 

Navarre  ? 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for 
France  to-day; 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey. 

But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight; 

And  the  good  lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet  white — 

Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en, 

The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false  Lor- 
raine. 

Up  with  it  high;  unfurl  it  wide — that  all  the  host  may  know 

How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought 
His  church  such  woe. 

Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest 
point  of  war, 

Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for  Henry  o£ 
Navarre. 


'at  88  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

^o!  maidens  of  Vienna;  ho!  matrons  of  Lucerne — 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  ncvei' 
shall  return. 

Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles. 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spear- 
men's souls. 

Ho!  gallant  nobles  of  the  league,  look  that  your  arms  be 
bright; 

Ho!  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward 
to-night; 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised 
the  slave. 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the 
brave. 

Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are; 

.And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord.  King  Henry  of  Navarre! 

Lord  Magaulay. 


EXCELSIOR. 


The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device — 
Excelsior! 

His  brow  was  sad;  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath; 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue — 
Excelsior! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  I«9 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright. 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan — 
Excelsior! 

"  Try  not  the  pass,"  the  old  man  said: 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead; 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide! " 

And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior! 

"  Oh,  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast!  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye. 
But  still  he  answered  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche!  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good  night: 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior! 

A  traveler,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found. 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior! 


igo  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay. 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star — 
Excelsior! 

H,  W.  Longfellow. 


NIGHT. 


How  beautiful  is  night! 

A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air; 

No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor  staiia 

Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven; 

In  full-orbed  glory  yonder  moon  divine 

Rolls  through  the  dark-blue  depths. 

Beneath  her  steady  ray 

The  desert-circle  spreads 

Like  the  ocean  girdled  with  the  sky. 

How  beautiful  is  night! 

Robert  Southey. 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH  TARA'S 
HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls, 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er. 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  19 1 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

Thomas  Moore, 

HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls! 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 

From  the  celestial  walls! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there, 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night!  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 


J  92  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Peace!  Peace!  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer? 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair. 

The  best-beloved  Night! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags. 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt! " 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work. 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof? 
It's  oh!  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save. 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

"  Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim! 
Work — work — work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Band,  and  gusset,,  and  seam. 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream! 


A 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  193 

"  O  men,  with  sisters  dear! 

O  men,  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creature's  lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death — 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 
O  God!  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap! 

"  Work — work — work! 

My  labor  never  flags; 
And  what  are  its  wages?     A  bed  of  straw 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags, 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor— 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there! 

"  Work — work — work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime! 
Work — work — work — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band — 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 


^4  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

"  Work — work — work 

In  the  dull  December  light! 
And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright!-- 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

**  Oh!  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head. 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet! 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal! 

**  Oh!  but  for  one  short  hour — 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1^5 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tones  could  reach  the  rich! — 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY   OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FARTHER  THAN  HE  INTENDED,  AND  CAMS  StfS 
HOME  AGAIN. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown; 
A  trainband  captain  eke  was  he, 

Of  famous  London  town, 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear— 

"Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 

No  holiday  have  seen. 

**  To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 
And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 
All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

"  My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child, 
Myself  and  children  three, 
Will  fill  the  chaise;  so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,  "I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one. 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dew; 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 


196  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

**  I  am  a  linendraper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know; 
And  my  good  friend,  the  calender, 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "  That's  well  said; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear," 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife; 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed 

Where  they  did  all  get  in — 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels- 
Were  never  folks  so  glad; 

The  stones  did  rattle  underneath. 
As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 
Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 

And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride- 
But  soon  came  down  again. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  I9f 

For  saddletree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came:  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind; 
When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down  stairs— 

"The  wine  is  left  behind!" 

"  Good  lack!  "  quoth  he — "yet  bring  it  me, 
My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 
When  I  do  exercise." 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul!) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear. 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  l^'-ushed  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 


198  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  "  Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon. 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright. 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hajuls> 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  naught; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out. 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow — the  cloak  did  fly, 
Like  streamer  long  and  gay; 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 
At  last  it  flew  away. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  '^ 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung— 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screatnftd. 

Up  flew  the  windows  all; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "Well  done!" 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin— who  but  he? 
His  fame  soon  spread  around— 
«He  carries  weight!  he  rides  a  racel 
Tis  for  a  thousand  pound! " 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low. 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back, 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smok« 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 


zoo  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  did  he  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay: 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  Ihe  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin!  here's  the  house!' 

They  all  at  once  did  cry; 
"The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired:" 

Said  Gilpin— "So  am  I!" 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there; 
For  why? — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  «°' 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him: 

"What  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell: 
Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 
Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? " 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke: 

**  I  came  because  your  horse  would  come; 
And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 
They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in- 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig — 
A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 

A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for-  wear- 
Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  showed  his  ready  wit — 
"My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 
They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 


a.02  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

"  But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  aWay 
That  hangs  upon  your  face; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "  It  is  my  wedding  day, 
And  all  the  world  would  stare 

If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 
And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"  I  am  in  haste  to  dine; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here— 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast. 
For  which  he  paid  full  dear! 

For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 
Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar. 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 
For  why? — they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 

Into  the  country  far  away. 
She  pulled  out  half  a  crown; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  203 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 
**  My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain — 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop. 

By  catching  at  his  rein; 

But  not  performing  what  he  mean^ 

And  gladly  would  have  done, 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 
The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  fflisis 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry: 

"  Stop  thief!  stop  thief !— a  highwayman! " 
Not  one  of  them  was  mute: 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space; 
The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 


204  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king! 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he; 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see! 

William  Cowpeh. 


HORATIUS. 

A  LAY  MADE  ABOUT  THE  YEAR  OF  ROME  CCCLX. 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium, 

By  the  nine  gods  he  SAVore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  nine  gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north,  ' 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home, 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  toS 

The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place, 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain, 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine. 
Like  an  eagle's  nest  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine; 

From  lordly  Volaterrse, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  bythe  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old; 
From  sea-girt  Populonia, 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain-tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky; 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisse, 

Queen  of  the  Western  waves, 
Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes, 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves; 
From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 

Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers; 
From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 

Her  diadem  of  towers. 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets. 

The  wisest  of  the  land. 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand. 
Evening  and  morn  the  thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 


ao6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  with  one  voice  the  thirty- 
Have  their  glad  answer  given: 
"  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena— 
Go  forth  beloved  of  heaven! 

Go,  and  return  in  glory 
To  Clusium's  royal  dome, 

And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 
The  golden  shields  of  Rome!" 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men, 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand. 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten, 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array; 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright; 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  fathers  of  the  city, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay 


FAVORJTE  POEMS.  207 

I  wis,  in  all  the  senate 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  consul — 

Up  rose  the  fathers  all; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council,  standing 

Before  the  river-gate; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  consul  roundly: 

''  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear: 
"To  arms!  to  arms!  sir  consul — 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

And  nearer,  fast,  and  nparer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come; 
And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is  heard  the  trumpets'  war-note  proud. 

The  trampling  and  the  hum. 


208  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 
The  long  array  of  spears. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car, 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  housetops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  toward  him  and  hissed, 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses. 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

But  the  consul's  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  consul's  speech  was  low. 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall. 

And  darkly  at  the  foe: 
"Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down; 
And  if  they  once  may  wi.i  the  bridge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town? " 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  *^ 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 
The  captain  of  the  gate: 

*  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods? 

*  And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame — 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  sir  consul. 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play — 
In  yon  straight  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?" 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius — 
A  Ramnian  proud  was  he: 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius — 
Of  Titian  blood  was  he: 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.'' 


SIO  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  consul, 
"As  thou  say  est,  so  let  it  be." 

And  straight  against  that  great  array- 
Forth  went  the  dauntless  three. 

For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 
Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 

Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party — 

Then  all  were  for  the  state; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor. 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great; 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned, 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold; 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe. 
And  the  tribunes  beard  the  high. 

And  the  fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold; 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  while  the  three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
j  The  consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  ax; 
And  fathers,  mixed  with  commons, 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow. 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  aW 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Raiik  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced  and  ensigns  spread, 
Rolled  slowly  toward  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  three. 

The  three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose; 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath; 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth; 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust. 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low; 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow; 


SI2  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

"  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "fell  pirate! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark; 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns,  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accursed  sail! " 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes; 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array. 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

But,  hark!  the  cry  is  Astur: 

And  lo!  the  ranks  divide; 
And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans, 

A  smile  serene  and  high; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "The  she-wolf's  litter 

Stand  savagely  at  bay; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow. 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ? " 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  213 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh^ 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh — 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing  space — 
Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet, 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped. 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel. 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain, 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
«  And  see,"  he  cried,  "  the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ? " 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran,. 
Mingled  with  wrath,  and  shame,  and  dread. 

Along  that  glittering  van. 


214  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  three, 
And  from  the  ghastly  entrance. 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank — like  boys  who,  unaware. 
Ranging  a  wood  to  start  a  hare, 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 

Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 

Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack; 
But  those  behind  cried  "Forward!  " 

And  those  before  cried  "Back!" 
And  backward  now,  and  forward, 

Wavers  the  deep  array; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel. 
And  the  victorious  trumpd:t-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 
Strode  out  before  the  crowd; 

Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  three, 
And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud: 
"Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus! 
Now  welcome  to  thy  home! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  215 

Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away? 
Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 
Have  manfully  been  plied. 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 
Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius!  " 

Loud  cried  the  fathers  all — 
"  Back,  Lartius!  back,  Herminius! 
Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall! " 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius— 

Herminius  darted  back; 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces. 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone. 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more; 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream; 


3l6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 
Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 

As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 
Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind — 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 
And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"  Down  with  him!  "  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face; 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 
"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace! " 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome; 

«  O  Tiber!  father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day! " 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side. 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back. 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current. 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain, 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  2^7 

And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows; 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking. 

And  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer. 

In  such  an  evil  case. 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place; 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

«  Curse  on  him!  "  quoth  false  Sextus,— 
"  Will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 
We  should  have  sacked  the  town!  " 
"  Heaven  help  him!  "  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 
"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 
Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping,      , 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud. 
He  enters  through  the  river-gate. 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 


21^  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night: 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high — 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see, — 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee; 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Lord  Macaulay. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  HARP. 

*Tls  believed  that  this  harp,  which  I  wake  now  for  thee, 
Was  a  Siren  of  old,  who  sung  under  the  sea;     , 
And  who  often,  at  eve,  through  the  bright  billow  roved. 
To  meet  on  the  green  shore,  a  youth  whom  she  loved. 

But  she  loved  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep. 
And  in  tears,  all  the  night,  her  gold  ringlets  to  steep, 
Till  Heaven  looked  with  pity  on  true  love  so  warm. 
And  changed  to  this  soft  harp  the  sea-maiden's  form. 

Still  her  bosom  rose  fair — still  her  cheek  smiled  the  same. 
While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  curled  round  the  frame; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  219 

And  her  hair,  shedding  tear-drops  from  all  its  bright 

rings, 
Fell  o'er  her  white  arm,  to  make  the  gold  strings! 

Hence  it  came,  that  this  soft  harp  so  long  hath  been 

known 
To  mingle  love's  language  with  sorrow's  sad  tone; 
Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay 
To  be  love  when  I'm  near  thee,  and  grief  when  away! 

Thomas  Moore, 


A  SONG  OF  EASTER. 

Sing,  children,  sing! 
And  the  lily  censers  swing; 
Sing  that  life  and  joy  are  waking,  and  that  death  no  more 

is  king. 
Sing  the  happy,  happy  tumult  of  the  slowly  brightening 
spring; 
Sing,  little  children,  sing! 

Sing,  children,  sing! 
Winter  wild  has  taken  wing. 
Fill  the  air  with  the  sweet  tidings  till  the  frosty  echoes 

ring! 
Along  the  caves  the  icicles  no  longer  glittering  cling; 
And  the  crocus  in  the  garden  lifts  its  bright  face  to  the 

sun; 
And  in  the  meadows  softly  the  brooks  begin  to  run; 
And  the  golden  catkins  swing 
In  the  warm  airs  of  the  spring; 
Sing,  little  children,  sing! 


aao  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Sing,  little  children,  sing! 
The  lilies  white  you  bring 

In  the  joyous  Easter  morning  for  hope  are  blussoming; 
And  as  the  earth  her  shroud  of  snow  from  off  her  breast 

doth  fling, 
So  may  we  cast  our  fetters  off  in  God's  eternal  spring. 

So  may  we  find   release  at  last  from  sorrow  and   from 

pain. 
So  may  we  find  our  childhood's  calm,  delicious  dawn 

again. 
Sweet  are  your  eyes,  O  little  ones,  that  look  with  smiling 

grace, 
Without  a  shade  of  doubt  or  fear  into  the  Future's  face! 
Sing,  sing  in  happy  chorus,  with  joyful  voices  tell 
That  death  is  life,  and  God  is  good,  and  all  things  shaR 
be  well; 
That  bitter  days  shall  cease 
In  warmth  and  light  and  peace, — 
That  winter  yields  to  spring, — 
Sing,  little  children,  sing! 

Celia  Thaxtbr. 


MY  TIMES  ARE  IN  THY  HAND. 

Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life 

Is  portioned  out  for  me, 
And  the  changes  that  will  surely  come, 

I  do  not  fear  to  see; 
But  I  ask  Thee  for  a  present  mind 

Intent  on  pleasing  Thee. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  221 

I  ask  Thee  for  a  thoughtful  love, 
Through  constant  watching  wise, 

To  meet  the  glad  with  joyful  smiles, 
And  to  wipe  the  weeping  eyes; 

And  a  heart  at  leisure  from  itself, 
To  soothe  and  sympathize. 

I  would  not  have  the  restless  will 

That  hurries  to  and  fro. 
Seeking  for  some  great  thing  to  do, 

Or  secret  thing  to  know; 
I  would  be  treated  as  a  child, 

And  guided  where  I  go. 

Wherever  in  the  world  I  am, 

In  whatsoe'er  estate, 
I  have  a  fellowship  with  hearts 

To  keep  and  cultivate; 
And  a  work  of  lowly  love  to  do. 

For  the  Lord  on  whom  I  wait. 

So  I  ask  Thee  for  the  daily  strength, 

To  none  that  ask  denied; 
And  a  mind  to  blend  with  outward  life, 

While  keeping  at  Thy  side. 
Content  to  fill  a  little  space. 

If  thou  be  glorified. 

And  if  some  things  I  do  not  ask 

In  my  cup  of  blessing  be, 
I  would  have  my  spirit  filled  the  more 

With  grateful  love  to  Thee; 
And  careful,  less  to  serve  Thee  much 

Than  to  please  Thee  perfectly. 


FAVORITE  POEMS. 

There  are  briers  besetting  every  path, 

Which  call  for  patient  care; 
There  is  a  cross  in  every  lot, 

And  an  earnest  need  for  prayer; 
But  a  lowly  heart  that  leans  on  Thee  * 

Is  happy  anywhere. 

In  a  service  which  Thy  love  appoints, 

There  are  no  bonds  for  me; 
For  my  secret  heart  is  taught  "the  truth" 

That  makes  Thy  children  "free"  ; 
And  a  life  of  self-renouncing  love 

Is  a  life  of  liberty, 

Anna  L.  Waring. 


MY  CREED. 


I  hold  that  Christian  grace  abounds 
Where  charity  is  seen ;  that  when 
We  climb  to  heaven,  'tis  on  the  rounds 
Of  love  to  men. 

I  hold  all  else,  named  piety, 

A  selfish  scheme,  a  vain  pretense; 
Where  centre  is  not,  can  there  be 
Circumference? 

This  I  moreover  hold,  and  dare 

Affirm  where'er  my  rhyme  may  go: 
Whatever  things  be  sweet  or  fair, 
Love  makes  them  so. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  223 

Whether  it  be  the  sickle's  rush 

Through  wheat  fields,  or  tfie  fall  of  showers, 
Or  by  some  cabin  door  a  bush 
Of  rugged  flowers. 

'Tis  not  the  wide  phylactery, 

Nor  stubborn  fast,  nor  stated  prayers, 
That  makes  us  saints;  we  judge  the  tree 
By  what  it  bears. 

And  when  a  man  can  live  apart 

From  works,  on  theologic  trust, 

I  know  the  blood  about  his  heart 

Is  dry  as  dust. 

Alice  Gary, 


CREEDS  OF  THE   BELLS. 
How  sweet  the  chime  of  the  Sabbath  belisi 
Each  one  its  creed  in  music  tells, 
Ie  tones  that  float  upon  the  air, 
As  soft  as  song,  as  pure  as  prayer; 
And  I  will  put  in  simple  rhyme 
The  language  of  the  golden  chime. 
My  happy  heart  with  rapture  swells 
Responsive  to  the  bells,  sweet  bells. 

"In  deeds  of  love  excel,  excel!  " 
Chimed  out  from  ivied  towers  a  bell, 

"This  is  the  church  not  built  on  sands, 
Emblem  of  one  not  built  with  hands; 
Its  forms  and  sacred  rites  revere; 
Come,  worship  here,  come,  worship  here; 
In  ritual  and  faith  excel," 
Chimed  out  the  Episcopalian  beli. 


*24  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

"  Oh,  heed  ye  ancient  landmarks  well,** 
In  solemn  tones  exclaimed  a  bell; 

"  No  progress  made  by  mortal  man 
Can  change  the  just,  eternal  plan: 
With  God  there  can  be  nothing  new;  • 
Ignore  the  false,  embrace  the  true. 
While  all  is  well,  is  well,  is  well," 
Pealed  out  the  good  old  Dutch  chui  ch  bell. 

"  Ye  purifying  waters  swell," 
In  mellow  tones  rang  out  a  bell: 

"Though  faith  alone  in  Christ  can  save, 
Man  must  be  plunged  beneath  the  wave, 
To  show  the  world  unfaltering  faith 
In  what  the  sacred  Scripture  saith: 
O,  swell,  ye  rising  waters,  swell," 
Pealed  out  the  clear-toned  Baptist  bell. 

"  Not  faith  alone,  but  works,  as  well. 
Must  test  the  soul,"  said  a  soft  bell: 

"  Come  here  and  cast  aside  your  load, 
And  work  your  way  along  the  road. 
With  faith  in  God,  and  faith  in  man, 
And  hope  in  Christ,  where  hope  began: 
Do  well,  do  well,  do  well,  do  well!  " 
Rang  out  the  Unitarian  bell. 

"  Farewell,  farewell,  base  world,  farewell," 
In  touching  tones  exclaimed  a  bell; 

"  Life  is  a  boon  to  mortals  given, 
To  fit  the  soul  for  bliss  in  heaven: 
Do  not  invoke  the  avenging  rod, 
Come  here  and  learn  the  way  to  God; 
Say  to  the  world  farewell,  farewell! " 
Pealed  forth  the  Presbyterian  bell. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  1 

'•'In  after  life  there  is  no  hell! " 

In  raptures  rang  a  cheerful  bell: 
**  Look  up  to  heaven  this  holy  day, 

Where  angels  wait  to  lead  the  way; 

There  are  no  fires,  no  fiends  to  blight 

The  future  life:  be  iust  and  rio-ht. 

No  hell,  no  hell,  no  hell,  no  hell! " 

Rang  out  the  Universalist  bell. 

"  To  all  the  truth  we  tell,  we  tell! " 
Shouted  in  ecstacies  a  bell: 

"Come,  all  ye  weary  wanderers,  see. 
Our  Lord  has  made  salvation  free! 
Repent,  believe,  have  faith,  and  then 
Be  saved  and  praise  the  Lord.     Amen, 
Salvation's  free,  we  tell,  we  tell! " 
Shouted  the  Methodistic  bell. 

George  W.  Bungay. 


THE  SOUL'S  DEFIANCE. 

I  said  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm 

That  beat  against  my  breast. 
Rage  on, — thou  mayst  destroy  this  form, 

And  lay  it  low  at  rest; 
But  still  the  spirit  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high. 
Undaunted  on  its  fury  looks, 

With  steadfast  eye. 

I  said  to  Penury's  meager  train, 
Come  on, — your  threats  I  brave; 


22<i  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain, 

And  crush  me  to  the  grave; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures 

Shall  mock  your  force  the  while, 
And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 

With  bitter  smile, 

I  said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

Pass  on, — I  heed  you  not; 
You  may  pursue  me  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot; 
Yet  still  the  spirit,  which  you  see 

Undaunted  by  your  wiles. 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  highborn  smiles. 

I  said  to  Friendship's  menaced  blow, 

Strike  deep, — my  heart  shall  bear; 
Thou  canst  but  add  one  bitter  woe 

To  those  already  there; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  sustains 

This  last  severe  distress 
Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 

And  scorn  redress. 

I  said  to  Death's  uplifted  dart, 

Aim  sure, — O,  why  delay? 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  fearful  heart, 

A  weak,  reluctant  prey; 
For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 

Unruffled-by  this  last  dismay. 
Wrapt  in  its  own  eternity, 

Shall  pass  away. 

Lavinia  Stoddard. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  »»7 

WRESTLING  JACOB. 

FIRST    PART. 

Come,  O  thou  Traveler  unknown, 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see; 

My  company  before  is  gone, 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  thee; 

With  thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay, 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  who  I  am; 

My  sin  and  misery  declare; 
Thyself  hast  called  me  by  my  name; 

Look  on  thy  hands  and  read  it  there; 
But  who,  I  ask  thee,  who  art  thou? 
Tell  me  thy  name,  and  tell  me  now. 

In  vain  thou  strugglest  to  get  free; 

I  never  will  unloose  my  hold: 
Art  thou  the  Man  that  died  for  me? 

The  secret  of  thy  love  unfold; 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

Wilt  thou  not  yet  to  me  reveal 

Thy  new,  unutterable  name? 
Tell  me,  I  still  beseech  thee,  tell; 

To  know  it  now  resolved  I  am; 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

What  though  my  shrinking  flesh  complain 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long. 


«28  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain; 

When  I  am  weak,  then  am  I  strong! 
And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 
I  shall  with  the  God-man  prevail. 

SECOND    PART. 

Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak, 
But  confident  in  self-despair; 

Speak  to  my  heart,  in  blessings  speak; 
Be  conquered  by  my  instant  prayer; 

Speak,  or  thou  never  hence  shalt  move, 

And  tell  me  if  thy  name  be  Love. 

'Tis  Love!  'tis  Love!     Thou  diedst  for  me; 

I  hear  thy  whisper  in  my  heart; 
The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  flee; 

Pure,  universal  Love  thou  art; 
To  me,  to  all,  thy  bowels  move; 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

My  prayer  hath  power  with  God;  the  grace 

Unspeakable  I  now  receive; 
Through  faith  I  see  thee  face  to  face; 

I  see  thee  face  to  face  and  live! 
In  vain  I  have  not  wept  and  strove; 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

I  know  thee,  Savior,  who  thou  art, 
Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  friend; 

Nor  wilt  thou  with  the  night  depart, 
But  stay  and  love  me  to  the  end; 

Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  229 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  on  me 

Hath  risen,  with  healing  in  his  wings; 

Withered  my  nature's  strength;  from  thee 
My  soul  its  life  and  succor  brings; 

My  help  is  all  laid  up  above; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Contented  now  upon  my  thigh 

I  halt  till  life's  short  journey  end; 
All  helplessness,  all  weakness,  I 

On  thee  alone  for  strength  depend; 
Nor  have  I  power  from  thee  to  move; 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey; 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin  with  ease  o'ercome; 
I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  way. 

And,  as  a  bounding  hart,  fly  home; 
Through  all  eternity  to  prove 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Charles  Weslxy. 


TOMMY'S  DEAD. 

You  may  give  over  plow,  boys, 
You  may  take  the  gear  to  the  stead, 
All  the  sweat  o'  your  brow,  boys. 
Will  never  get  beer  and  bread. 
The  seed  's  waste,  1  know,  Doys, 
There's  not  a  blade  will  grow,  boy», 
'Tis  cropped  out,  I  trow,  boys, 
And  Tommy's  dead. 


330  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Send  the  colt  to  fair,  boys, 

He's  going  blind,  as  I  said. 

My  old  eyes  can't  bear,  boys, 

To  see  him  in  the  shed; 

The  cow's  dry  and  spare,  boys, 

She's  neither  here  nor  there,  boys, 

I  doubt  she's  badly  bred; 

Stop  the  mill  to-morn,  boys. 

There'll  be  no  more  corn,  boys. 

Neither  white  nor  red; 

There's  no  sign  of  grass,  boys, 

You  may  sell  the  goat  and  the  ass,  boys, 

The  land's  not  what  it  was,  boys. 

And  the  beasts  must  be  fed; 

You  may  turn  Peg  away,  boys, 

You  may  pay  off  old  Ned, 

We've  had  a  dull  day,  boys, 

And  Tommy's  dead. 

Move  my  chair  on  the  floor,  boys. 

Let  me  turn  my  head: 

She's  standing  there  in  the  door,  boys, 

Your  sister  Winifred! 

Take  her  away  from  me,  boys. 

Your  sister  Winifred! 

Move  me  round  in  my  place,  boys, 

Let  me  turn  my  head, 

Take  her  away  from  me,  boys. 

As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed, 

The  bones  of  her  thin  face,  boys, 

As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed! 

I  don't  know  how  it  be,  boys. 

When  all's  done  and  said. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  23] 

But  I  see  her  looking  at  me,  boys, 
Wherever  I  turn  my  head; 
Out  of  the  big  oak-tree,  boys, 
Out  of  the  garden-bed, 
And  the  lily  as  pale  as  she,  boys, 
And  the  rose  that  used  to  be  red. 

There's  something  not  right,  boys, 
But  I  think  it's  not  in  my  head, 
I've  kept  my  precious  sight,  boys, — 
The  Lord  be  hallowed! 
Outside  and  in 

The  ground  is  cold  to  my  tread, 
The  hills  are  wizen  and  thin, 
The  sky  is  shriveled  and  shred. 
The  hedges  down  by  the  loan 
I  can  count  them  bone  by  bone, 
The  leaves  are  open  and  spread. 
But  I  see  the  teeth  of  the  land. 
And  hands  like  a  dead  man's  hand, 
And  the  eyes  of  a  dead  man's  head. 

There's  nothing  but  cinders  and  sand, 
The  rat  and  the  mouse  have  fed, 
And  the  summer's  empty  and  cold; 
Over  valley  and  wold 
Wherever  I  turn  my  head 
There's  a  mildew  and  a  mould. 
The  sun's  going  out  overhead, 
And  I'm  very  old. 
And  Tommy's  dead. 

What  am  1  staying  for,  boys? 
You're  all  born  and  bred, 


232  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

*Tis  ilfty  years  and  more,  boys, 
Since  wife  and  I  were  wed, 
And  she's  gone  before,  boys, 
And  Tommy's  dead. 

She  was  always  sweet,  boys. 

Upon  his  curly  head. 

She  knew  she'd  never  see  't,  boys, 

And  she  stole  off  to  bed; 

I've  been  sitting  up  alone,  boys. 

For  he'd  come  home,  he  said, 

But  it's  time  I  was  gone,  boys. 

For  Tommy's  dead. 

Put  the  shutters  up,  boys, 

Bring  out  the  beer  and  bread. 

Make  haste  and  sup,  boys, 

For  my  eyes  are  heavy  as  lead; 

There's  something  wrong  i'  the  cup,  boys, 

There's  something  ill,  wi*  the  bread, 

I  don't  care  to  sup,  boys. 

And  Tommy's  dead. 

I'm  not  right,  I  doubt,  boys, 
I've  such  a  sleepy  head, 
I  shall  nevermore  be  stout,  boys, 
You  may  carry  me  to  bed. 
What  are  you  about,  boys? 
The  prayers  are  all  said. 
The  fire's  raked  out,  boys, 
And  Tommy's  dead. 

The  stairs  are  too  steep,  boys, 
You  may  carry  me  to  the  head, 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  233 

The  night's  dark  and  deep,  boys, 
Your  mother's  long  in  bed, 
'Tis  time  to  go  to  sleep,  boys, 
And  Tommy's  dead. 

I'm  not  used  to  kiss,  boys, 

You  may  shake  my  hand  instead. 

All  things  go  amiss,  boys. 

You  may  lay  me  where  she  is,  boys 

And  I'll  rest  my  old  head: 

'Tis  a  poor  world,  this,  boys. 

And  Tommy's  dead. 

Sidney  Dobell. 


THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN. 

O,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  His  part 
Upon  this  battle-field  of  earth, 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart. 

He  hides  Himself  so  wondrously. 
As  though  there  were  no  God; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  He  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  we  need  Him  most. 

Ill  masters  good,  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease; 
And  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposes. 


234  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Ah!  God  is  other  than  we  think; 

His  ways  are  far  above. 
Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reached 

Only  by  childlike  love. 

Workman  of  God!  O,  lose  not  heart, 

But  learn  what  God  is  like; 
And  in  the  darkest  battle-field 

Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  blest  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  He 

Is  most  invisible. 

Blest,  too,  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie. 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 

Wrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God; 

And  right  the  day  must  win; 
To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin! 

Frederic  William  Faber. 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

We  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head 
The  morning-glory  bright; 

Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath 
So  full  of  life  and  light, 

So  lit  as  with  a  sunrise. 
That  we  could  only  say, 


FAVORITE  POEMS  235 

**  She  is  the  morning-glory  true, 
And  her  poor  types  are  they." 

So  always  from  that  happy  time 

We  called  her  by  their  name, 
And  ver}'  fitting  did  it  seem, — 

For  sure  as  morning  came. 
Behind  her  cradle  bars  she  smiled 

To  catch  the  first  faint  ray, 
As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower 

And  opens  to  the  day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear 

Their  airy  cups  of  blue, 
As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light. 

Brimmed  with  sleep's  tender  dew; 
And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine 

Round  their  supports  are  thrown, 
As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretched  plea 

Clasped  all  hearts  to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come, 

Even  as  comes  the  flower 
The  last  and  perfect  added  gift 

To  crown  Love's  morning  hour; 
And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth 

The  love  we  could  not  say. 
As  on  the  little  dewdrops  round 

Shines  back  the  heart  of  day. 

***** 
The  morning-glory's  blossoming 

Will  soon  be  coming  round, — 
We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves 

Upspringing  from  the  ground; 


aj6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  tender  things  the  winter  killed 

Renew  again  their  birth, 
But  the  glory  of  our  morning 
'  Has  passed  away  from  earth. 

O  Earth!  in  vain  our  aching  eyes 

Stretch  over  thy  green  plain! 
Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air. 

Her  spirit  to  sustain; 
But  up  in  groves  of  Paradise 

Full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful 

Twine  round  our  dear  Lord's  knee. 

Maria  White  Lowell. 


HYMN  TO  CHRIST: 

AS   THE   REVEALER    OF    LOVE, 

There  is  no  love  like  Thy  love, 

Who  lovest  to  the  cross; 
No  love  so  pure  and  high  love 

As  Thine  who  countest  loss 
Whatever  pleasure  bringeth 

Of  sweetness  and  caress, 
And  smil'st  while  sorrow  stingeth, 

If  sorrowing  Thou  canst  bless. 

O  love  beyond  all  praising! 

O  life  with  love  made  fair! 
My  heart  is  faint  with  gazing 

Across  the  radiant  air, 
And  back  to  that  pure  glory 

Which  in  the  eye  of  faith 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  ^J7 

Surrounds  the  simple  story 
Of  Thy  pure  life  and  death. 

Not  all  the  dreams  of  sages 

Who  sought  in  vain  to  see, 
Nor  all  the  yearning  ages, 

Had  formed  a  thought  of  Thee— 
Of  love  so  sweet  and  tender, 

Of  heart  so  strong  and  leal, 
Or  such  sublime  surrender 

Of  self  to  others'  weal. 

The  old  heroic  stories, 

The  tales  of  woman's  truth, 
And  all  the  purest  glories 

Of  courage,  patience,  ruth. 
Which  moved  the  world  the  deepest, 

Thou  lightly  bear'st  away, 
And  in  Thy  brightness  keepest. 

Like  starlight  locked  in  day. 

And  now  where'er  the  motion 

Of  goodness  stirs  a  soul. 
It  turns  to  Thy  devotion, 

A  needle  to  its  pole. 
For  Thou  hast  rendered  real 

To  sight  and  so  to  hope. 
The  shadowy-seen  ideal 

With  which  we  could  not  cope; 

To-day  Thy  standard  flowing, 

A  larger  host  would  bring. 
To  follow  with  its  going. 

Than  ever  followed  king; 


FAVORITE  POEMS. 

From  every  tribe  and  nation 
Come  out  in  quenchless  faith, 

And  ardent  consecration, 

To  move  with  Thee  to  death. 

Whatever  pure  and  holy 

On  earth  is  found,  to  Thee 
in  worship  fond  and  lowly 

Bends  down  the  willing  knee. 
And  every  fair  affection, 

And  aspiration  sweet, 
And  gentle  recollection, 

Instinctive  finds  Thy  feet. 

How,  O  Thou  wondrous  Being, 

Thy  life  with  ours  is  wrought; 
Thou  fillest  all  our  seeing, 

And  shapest  all  our  thought. 
In  everything  around  us 

Of  life  and  earth,  we  see 
The  truth  that  Thou  hast  found  us, 

The  presence.  Lord,  of  Thee. 

For  earth,  our  home,  is  brighter 

That  Thou  hast  touched  its  clay; 
The  very  day  is  lighter 

From  some  supremer  day: 
And  night  is  softly  ringing 

In  all  her  depths  afar, 
With  starry  armies  singing 

The  song  of  Bethlehem's  Star. 

I  cannot  tell  the  mannei 
Thou  fillest  all  to  me, 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  '39 

How  every  sunset  banner 

Is  blazoned  out  with  Thee, 
And  seems  before  the  portals 

Of  some  diviner  west, 
To  marshal  weary  mortals 

Onward  into  rest. 

Apart  in  forest  bowers, 

When  Spring  is  laughing  by, 
I  see  Thee  in  the  flowers 

That  open  to  the  sky; 
Each  standing  meekly,  purely 

Upon  the  hallowed  sod. 
And  whispering  low — O  surely 

I  have  been  touched  by  God! 

For  hence  is  no  forgetting 

That  such  a  love  has  been, 
And  thought  keeps  ever  setting 

Each  pleasant  thing  and  scene 
In  its  sublime  relation 

To  pure  and  perfect  love; 
Till  all  the  lower  creation 

Grows  one  with  that  above. 

There  is  no  love  like  Thy  love- 
Like  Thy  love.  Lord,  to  me; 

O  live  in  me  that  my  love 
May  rise  and  flow  to  Thee! 

With  all  Thy  taking,  take  me 
Unto  Thy  inmost  heart, 

And  by  Thy  love-power  make  me 
What  Thou,  O  Savior,  art! 

Wade  Robinson. 


«40  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

NOW  AND  THEN. 

"  Now  we  see  through  a  glass  darkly,  but  then  face  to  face." 

Now — we  are  toiling  through  a  weary  life, 

Then — we  shall  rest; 
Now — we  are  battling  with  the  sin  and  strife. 

Then — we  shall  rest. 
Now — we  are  groaning  'neath  a  heavy  load, 
Our  feet  grow  weary  of  the  dusty  road. 
The  upland  path  is  steep,  the  hills  we  climb, 
Lead  surely  to  a  peaceful  sunny  clime, 

Then — we  shall  rest. 

Now — we  are  pupils  in  the  school  of  time, 

Then — we  shall  know; 
Now — we  are  reaching  after  truths  sublime. 

Then — we  shall  know. 
Now — amid  the  mists  of  years, 
Doubts  are  ours  and  many  fears; 
Soon  will  pass  the  gloom  of  night; 
Heaven  will  give  us  cloudless  light; 

Then — we  shall  know. 

Then — mind  and  heart  will  glow, 

With  raptures  untold; 
All  we  have  longed  to  know 

Heaven  will  unfold; 
Then — we  shall  hail  in  song, 
Him  we  have  loved  so  long; 
We  His,  dear  face  shall  see. 
And  through  eternity 

Follow  the  Lamb! 

£lmc. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  241 


THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  A  FLEETING  SHOW, 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given; 
The  smiles  of  Joy,  the  tears  of  Woe, 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow — 

There's  nothing  true  but  Heaven! 

And  false  the  light  on  Glory's  plume, 

As  fading  hues  of  Even; 
And  Love,  and  Hope,  and  Beauty's  bloom. 
Are  blossoms  gathered  for  the  tomb — 

There's  nothing  bright  but  Heaven  I 

Poor  wanderers  of  a  stormy  day! 

From  wave  to  wave  we're  driven, 
And  Fancy's  flash,  and  Reason's  ray, 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way — 

There's  nothing  calm  but  Heaven! 

Thomas  Moore. 


WHAT  MAKES  A  HERO? 

What  makes  a  hero?     Not  success,  not  fame, 

Inebriate  merchants,  and  the  loud  acclaim 
Of  glutted  Avarice — caps  tossed  in  air, 
Or  pen  of  journalist  with  flourish  fair; 

Bells  pealed,  stars,  ribbons,  and  a  titled  name — 
These,  though  his  rightful  tribute,  he  can  spare; 

His  rightful  tribute,  not  his  end  or  aim, 
Or  true  reward;  for  never  yet  did  these 
Refresh  the  soul,  or  set  the  heart  at  ease. 


242  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

What  makes  a  hero?    An  heroic  mind, 
Expressed  in  action,  in  endurance  proved. 

And  if  there  be  pre-eminence  of  right. 

Derived  through  pain  well  suffered,  to  the  height 
Of  rank  heroic,  'tis  to  bear  unmoved 
Not  toil,  not  risk,  not  rage  of  sea  or  wind. 
Not  the  brute  fury  of  barbarians  blind. 

But  worse — ingratitude  and  poisonous  darts. 

Launched  by  the  country  he  had  served  and  loved. 
This,  with  a  free,  unclouded  spirit  pure. 
This,  in  the  strength  of  silence  to  endure, 

A  dignity  to  noble  deeds  imparts 

Beyond  the  gauds  and  trappings  of  renown. 

This  is  the  hero's  complement  and  crown, 
This  missed,  one  struggle  had  been  wanting  still — 
One  glorious  triumph  of  the  heroic  will. 

One  self-approval  in  his  heart  of  hearts. 

Henry  Taylor, 


•'MY  PRESENCE  SHALL  GO  WITH  THEE,  AND 
I  WILL  GIVE  THEE  REST." 

(Exodus  xxxiii,  14.) 

Hark!  from  the  heights  of  glory 

What  voice  is  that  I  hear, 
Bidding  me  look  before  me 

Into  the  opening  year? 
Hark!  'Tis  my  name  he  calleth — 
"  Oh,  heart,  with  doubts  oppressed, 
My  presence  shall  go  with  thee. 

And  I  will  give  thee  rest." 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  343 

I  catch  a  glimpse,  but  only 

A  glimpse  of  days  to  be; 
If  the  path  be  blest  or  lonely 

I  cannot  clearly  see; 
But  a  voice  of  tender  sweetness 

Falls  on  this  heart  depressed — 
"  My  presence  shall  go  with  thee 

And  I  will  give  thee  rest." 

I  see  the  pathway  dreary, 

With  no  sun's  rays  between. 
When  this  heart  will  feel  so  weary 

Of  every  earthly  scene; 
But  I  know,  whate'er  may  meet  me, 

With  this  promise  I  am  blest — 
"  My  presence  shall  go  with  thee, 

And  I  will  give  thee  rest." 

I  see  the  road  just  winding 

Into  a  vale  of  woe, 
Yet  I  go  forth,  not  minding, 

Since  Christ  will  lead,  I  know; 
For  he  saith,  lest  I  should  falter, 

With  undue  trouble  pressed — 
"  My  presence  shall  go  with  thee, 

And  I  will  give  thee  rest." 

Perchance  that  path  of  sorrow 

These  feet  may  never  tread, 
Then  wherefore  should  I  borrow 

From  the  future  aught  of  dread  ? 
Whate'er  of  woe  betideth, 

This  thought  shall  fill  my  breast — 
Christ's  presence  shall  go  with  me, 

And  He  will  give  me  rest. 


244  FAVORITE  FOMMS. 

And  if  through  Jordan's  river 

My  feet  shall  have  to  go, 
And  I  pass  away  forever 

From  this  sad  vale  of  woe, 
Surely  his  voice  will  whisper, 
Ere  I  can  be  distressed — 
"  My  presence  shall  go  with  thee 
And  I  will  give  thee  rest." 

Fairelie  THOwrrow, 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO. 

The  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head  and  tamed  his  heart 

of  fire, 
And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-imprisoned 

sire; 
"  I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress  keys,  I  bring  my  captive 

train; 
I  pledge  thee  faith: — my  liege,  my  lord,  oJt,  break  my 

father's  chain! " 
"Rise!  rise!  even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ransomed  man 

this  day; 
Mount  thy  good  steed,  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him  on 

his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on  his  steed. 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  his  charger's  foamy 

speed. 
And  lol  from  far,  as  on  they  pressed,  there  came  a  glit- 
tering band, 
With  one  that  'mid  them  stately  rode,  like  a  leader  in  the 

land. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  245 

"Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste!  for  there,  in  very  truth, 

is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearned  so  long 

to  see." 
His  proud  breast  heaved,  his  dark  eye  flashed,  his  cheeks' 

hue  came  and  went; 
He  reached  that  gray-haired  chieftain's  side,  and  there 

dismounting  bent — 
A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent — his  father's  hand  he  took; 
What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit  shook? 
That  hand  was  cold!  a  frozen  thing! — it  dropped  from 

his  like  lead: 
He  looked  up  to  the  face  above — the  face  was  of  the  dead! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  his  noble  brow — that  brow  was  fixed 

and  white! 
He  met  at  length  his  father's  eyes — but  in  them  was  no 

sight! 
Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang,  and  gazed;  but  who  can 

paint  that  gaze? 
They  hushed  their  very  hearts  who  saw  its  horror  and 

amaze: 
They  might  have  chained  him,  as  before  that  stony  form 

he  stood; 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  from  his 

lip  the  blood. 
"  Father! "  at  length  he  murmured  low,  and  wept  like 

childhood  then — 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike 

men. 
He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  on  all  his  young 

renown, 
Then  flung  the  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust 

sat  down, 


246  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

There,  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hand  his  darkly 

mournful  brow, 
*'  No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "  to  lift  the  sword 

for  now; 
My  king  is  false!  my  hope  betrayed!  my  father — oh,  the 

worth, 
The  glory,  and  the  loveliness,  are  passed  away  from  earth! 
I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my  sire,  beside 

thee  yet; 
I  would  that  there,  on  Spain's  free  soil,  our  kindred  blood 

had  met; 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit  then,  for  thee  my 

fields  were  won — 
And  thou  hast  perished  in  thy  chains,  as  though  thou 

hadst  no  son! " 
He  started  from  the  ground  once  more,  and  seized  the 

monarch's  rein. 
Amid  the  pale  and  'wildered  looks  of  all  the  courtier 

train. 
With  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rearing  war-horse 

led. 
And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face — the  king  before  the 

dead! 
"  Came  I  not  forth,  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's  hand  to 

kiss  ? 
Be  still!  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king!  and  tell  me,  what 

is  this? 
The  look,  the  voice,  the  heart  I  sought  —  give  answer. 

Where  are  they? 
If  thou  wouldst  «lear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life  through 

this  cold  clay! 
Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light:    be  still,  keep  down 

thine  ire; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  247 

Bid  those  white  lips  a  blessing  speak — this  earth  is  not 

my  sire! 
Give  me  back   him  for  whom   I  strove,  for  whom  my 

blood  was  shed! 
Thou  canst  not — and  a  king?  his  dust  be  mountains  on 

thy  head! " 
He   loosed    the   steed — his   slack   hand   fell; — upon    the 

silent  face 
He  cast  one  long,  deep  troubled  glance,  then  turned  from 

that  sad  place. 
Despair,  and  grief,  and  baffled  love,  o'erwhelmed  his  soul 

at  last — 
The  time  for  Vengeance  will  arrive,  when  Sorrow's  hour 

is  past. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 


THE  FADED  VIOLET. 

You  gave  it  me  long  years  ago, 

In  the  shadowy  evening  time — 
While  the  clouds  stole  round  the  mountain  side,, 

And  the  bells  rang  out  a  chime. 
The  blossoms  listened  at  our  feet — 

The  trees  stooped  from  above. 
You  said,  "  This  flower  will  say  for  me 

All  that  my  heart  says — love." 
'Tis  long  ago,  but  I  have  yet 
That  little  faded  violet. 

And  life  was  at  its  zenith  then; 

The  world  ne'er  seemed  so  bright, 
For  the  sweetest  story  ever  told 

I've  kissed  my  violet  blue. 


?48  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  said,  "  E'en  as  I  keep  my  flower, 

So  will  my  love  be  true." 
Ah  me — I  have  it  hidden  yet — 
That  little  faded  violet. 

We  parted  long,  long  months  ago, 

With  not  a  sigh  to  tell 
That  once  in  far-off  happy  days, 

We  two  had  loved  so  well. 
We  parted  with  but  few  cold  words, 

We  two  who  oft  had  said 
Not  all  the  world  should  come  between. 

Ah  well — the  love  was  dead — 
This  love  was  dead,  but  yet,  but  yet 
I  keep  my  faded  violet. 

ANONYMOtFS- 


SCOTCH  HYMN. 

There  are  blossoms  that  hae  budded, 

Been  blighted  i'  the  cauld, 
An'  lammies  that  hae  perished. 

Because  they  left  the  fauld; 
But  cower  ye  in  aneath  His  wings 

Wha  died  upon  the  tree, 
An'  gathers  in  His  bosom 

Helpless  weans  like  you  and  me. 

In  the  warld  there's  tribulation; 

In  the  warld  there's  wae; 
But  the  warld  it  is  bonnie,   . 

For  our  Father  made  it  sae; 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  249 

Then  brichten  up  your  armour, 

An'  be  happy  as  ye  gang, 
Though  your  sky  be  aften  clouded, 

It  winna  be  for  lang. 

Anonymous. 


THOU  ART,  O  GOD. 

"  The  day  is  Thine,  the  night  also  is  Thine:  Thou  hast  prepared  the 
ii|fht  and  the  sun. 

"Thou  hast  set  all  the  borders  of  the  earth:  Thou  hast  made  sum- 
mec  and  winter." — Psalm  Ixxiv.  j6,  77. 

Thou  art,  O  God,  the  life  and  light   . 

Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see; 
Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night. 

Are  but  reflections  caught  from  Thee. 
Where'er  we  turn,  Thy  glories  shine, 
And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine! 

When  Day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  opening  clouds  of  Even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 

Through  golden  vistas  into  Heaven — 

Those  hues  that  make  the  Sun's  decline 

So  soft,  so  radiant.  Lord!  are  Thine! 

When  Night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
O'ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 

Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,  whose  plume 
Is  sparkling  with  unnumbered  eyes — 

That  sacred  gloom,  those  fires  divine, 

So  grand,  so  countless,  Lord!  are  Thine. 


250  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

When  youthful  Spring  around' us  breathes^ 
Thy  spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh; 

And  every  flower  the  Summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 

Where'er  we  turn,  Thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine! 

Thomas  Moore. 


ONLY  A  CURL. 

Friends  of  faces  unknown  and  a  land 

Unvisited  over  the  sea. 
Who  tell  me  how  lonely  you  stand 
With  a  single  gold  curl  in  the  hand 

Held  up  to  be  looked  at  by  me. 

While  you  asked  me  to  ponder  and  say 

What  a  father  and  mother  can  do, 
With  the  bright  fellow-locks  put  away 
Out  of  reach,  beyond  kiss,  in  the  clay 
Where  the  violets  press  nearer  than  you,- 

Shall  I  speak  like  a  poet,  or  run 

Into  weak  woman's  tears  for  relief? 
Oh,  children! — I  never  lost  one. 
Yet  my  arm's  round  my  own  little  son, 
And  Love  knows  the  secret  of  Grief. 

And  I  feel  what  it  must  be  and  is, 

When  God  draws  a  new  angel  so 
Through  the  house  of  a  man  up  to  His, 
With  a  murmur  of  music  you  miss, 
And  a  rapture  of  light  you  forego. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  'S>^ 

How  you  think,  staring  on  at  the  door,  ^ 
Where  the  face  of  your  angel  flashed  in, 

That  its  brightness,  familiar  before. 

Burns  off  from  you  ever  the  more 
For  the  dark  of  your  sorrow  and  sin. 

*^God  lent  him  and  takes  him,"  you  sigh:— 
Nay,  there  let  me  break  with  your  pain: 
God's  generous  in  giving,  say  I, 
And  the  thing  which  He  gives  I  deny 
That  He  ever  can  take  back  again. 

He  gives  what  He  gives.     I  appeal 

To  all  who  bear  babes,— in  the  hour 
When  the  veil  of  the  body  we  feel 
Rent  around  us,  while  torments  reveal 
The  motherhood's  advent  in  power, 

And  the  babe  cries,— has  each  of  us  known 

By  apocalypse  (God  being  there 
Full  in  nature)  the  child  is  our  own, 
Life  of  life,  love  of  love,  moan  of  moan, 

Through  all  changes,  all  times,  everywhere. 

He's  ours  and  forever.     Believe, 

O  father— O  mother,  look  back 
To  the  first  love's  assurance.     To  give, 
Means,  with  God,  not  to  tempt  or  deceive 

With  a  cup  thrust  in  Benjamin's  sack. 

He  gives  what  He  gives.     Be  content! 

He  resumes  nothing  given— be  sure! 
God  lend!     Where  the  usurers  lent 
In  His  temple,  indignant  He  went 

And  scourged  away  all  those  impure. 


^2  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

He  lends  not;  but  gives  to  the  eAd, 
As  Ke  loves  to  the  end.     If  it  seem 

That  He  draws  back  a  gift,  comprehend 

'Tis  to  add  to  it  rather — amend, 
And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream, — 

Or  keep — as  a  mother  may  toys 

Too  costly,  though  given  by  herself, 
Till  the  room  shall  be  stiller  from  noise, 
And  the  children  more  fit  for  such  joys, 
^  Kept  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf. 

So  look  up,  friends!  you,  who  indeed 

Have  possessed  in  your  house  a  sweet  piece 
Of  the  Heaven  which  men  strive  for,  must  need 
Be  more  earnest  than  others  are — speed 
Where  they  loiter,  persist  where  they  cease. 

You  know  how  one  angel  smiles  there. 

Then  courage.     'Tis  easy  for  you 
To  be  drawn  by  a  single  gold  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and  despair 

To  the  safe  place  above  us.     Adieu! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  BRowmsf*. 


BETTER  IN  THE  MORNING. 

"  You  can't  help  the  baby,  parson, 

But  still  I  want  ye  to  go 
Down  an'  look  in  upon  her, 

An'  read  an'  pray,  you  know. 
Only  last  week  she  was  skippin'  round 

A  pullin'  my  whiskers  and  hair. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  ag^, 

A  climbin'  up  to  the  table 
Into  her  little  high-chair. 

"  The  first  night  that  she  took  it, 

When  her  little  cheeks  grew  red, 
When  she  kissed  good-night  to  papa, 

And  went  away  to  bed — 
Sez  she,  'It  headache,  papa, 

Be  better  in  mornin' — bye'; 
An'  somethin'  in  how  she  said  it 

Just  made  me  want  to  cry. 

•'  But  the  mornin'  brought  the  fever, 

And  her  little  hands  were  hot. 
An'  the  pretty  red  of  her  little  cheeks 

Grew  into  a  crimson  spot. 
But  she  laid  there  jest  ez  patient 

Ez  ever  a  woman  could, 
Takin'  whatever  we  give  her 

Better'n  a  woman  would, 

**■  The  da)^s  are  terrible  long  an'  slow, 
An'  she's  growin'  wus  in  each; 
An'  now  she's  jest  a  slippin' 

Clear  away  out  ov  our  reach. 
Every  night  when  I  kiss  her, 

Tryin'  hard  not  to  cry. 
She  says  in  a  way  that  kills  me — 
'  Be  better  in  the  mornin' — bye!' 

"  She  can't  get  through  the  night,  parson. 
So  I  want  ye  to  come  an'  pray, 
And  talk  with  mother  a  little — 
You'll  know  jest  what  to  say. 


8354  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Not  that  the  baby  needs  it, 

Nor  that  we  make  any  complaint 

That  God  seems  to  think  that  He's  needin' 
The  smile  of  the  little  saint." 

I  walked  along  with  the  corporal, 

To  the  door  of  his  humble  home, 
To  which  the  silent  messenger 

Before  had  already  come; 
And  if  he  had  been  a  titled  prince, 

I  would  not  have  been  honored  more 
Than  I  was  with  his  heartfelt  welcome 

To  his  lowly  cottage  door. 

Night  falls  again  in  the  cottage; 

They  move  in  silence  and  dread 
Around  the  room  where  the  baby 

Lies  panting  upon  her  bed. 
"  Does  baby  know  papa,  darling  ? " 

And  she  moves  her  little  face, 
With  answer  that  shows  she  knows  himj 

But  scarcely  a  visible  trace. 

All  her  wonderful  infantile  beauty 

Remains  as  it  was  before 
The  unseen,  silent  messenger 

Had  waited  at  the  door. 
"  Papa — kiss — baby — I's — so — tired." 

The  man  bows  low  his  face. 
And  two  swollen  hands  are  lifted 

In  baby's  last  embrace. 

And  into  her  father's  grizzled  beard 
The  little  red  fingers  cling. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  25-5 

While  her  husky  whispered  tenderness 
Tears  from  a  rock  would  wring. 

**  Baby is so sick papa — 

But — don't — want — you — to — cry  ! " 
The  little  hands  fall  on  the  coverlet — 
**  Be — better — in — mornin' bye! " 

And  night  around  baby  is  falling, 

Settling  down  dark  and  dense; 
Does  God  need  their  darling  in  Heaven 

That  He  must  carry  her  hence  ? 
I  prayed,  with  tears  in  my  voice,  ' 

As  the  corporal  solemnly  knelt, 
With  such  grief  as  never  before 

His  great  warm  heart  had  felt. 

Oh!  frivolous  men  and  women! 

Do  you  know  that  around  you,  and  nigh-* 
Alike  from  the  humble  and  haughty 
Goeth  up  evermore  the  cry  : 
^  My  child,  my  precious,  my  darling, 
How  can  I  let  you  die  ? " 
Oh!  hear  ye  the  white  lips  whisper — 

"  Be — better — in — mornin' bye!  " 

Leander  S.  Coan. 


NANCY. 

AN  IDYL  OF  THE  KTfCHEN. 

In  brown  Holland  apron  she  stood  in  the  kitchen; 

Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  and  her  cheeks  all  aglow; 
Her  hair  was  coiled  neatly,  when  I,  indiscreetly. 

Stood  watching  while  Nancy  was  kneading  the  dough. 


25 6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Now,  who  could  be  neater,  or  brighter,  or  sweeter, 

Or  who  hum  a  song  so  delightfully  low. 
Or  who  look  so  slender,  so  graceful,  so  tender, 

As  Nancy,  sweet  Nancy,  while  kneading  the  dough? 

How  deftly  she  pressed  it,  and  squeezed  it,  caressed  it, 
And  twisted  and  turned  it,  now  quick  and  now  slow; 

Ah  me,  but  that  madness  I've  paid  for  in  sadness! 

'Twas  my  heart  she  was  kneading  as  well  as  the  dough 

At  last  when  she  turned  for  her  pan  to  the  dresser. 
She  saw  me  and  blushed,  and  said  shyly:  "Please  gq 

Or  my  bread  I'll  be  spoiling,  in  spite  of  my  toiling, 
If  you  stand  here  and  watch  while  I'm  kneading  the 
dough." 

\  begged  for  permission  to  stay.     She'd  not  listen; 

The  sweet  little  tyrant  said:     "No,  sir!  no!  no!  " 
Yet  when  I  had  vanished  on  being  thus  banished. 

My  heart  stayed  with  Nancy  while  kneading  the  dougn.. 

I'm  dreaming,  sweet  Nancy,  and  see  you  in  fancy. 
Your  heart,  love,  has  softened  and  pitied  my  woe. 

And  we,  dear,  are  rich  in  a  dainty  wee  kitchen 
Where  Nancy,  my  Nancy,  stands  kneading  the  dough. 

John  A,  Fraser,  Jr. 


MOTHER'S    LITANY    BY    THE    SICK-BED   OF 
CHILD. 

Savior  that  of  woman  born, 
Mother-sorrow  didst  not  scorn, 
Thou  with  whose  last  anguish  strove 
One  dear  thought  of  earthly  love; 

Hear  and  aid- 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  2&? 

Low  he  lies,  my  precious  child, 
With  his  spirit  wandering  wild 
From  its  gladsome  tasks  and  play. 
And  its  bright  thoughts  far  away:— 

Savior,  aid! 

Pa:!?,  sits  heavy  on  his  brow, 
E'en  though  slumber  seal  it  now-. 
Round  his  lip  is  quivering  strife, 
In  his  hand  unquiet  life; 

Aid,  oh!  aid^ 

Savior!  loose  the  burning  chain 
From  his  fevered  heart  and  brain, 
Give,  oh!  give  his  young  soul  back 
Into  its  own  cloudless  track! 

Hear  and  aid! 
Mrs.  Hemans 


OVER  THE  RIVER. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon,  to  me, 

Lov«d  ones  who've  crossed  to  the  farther  side; 
The  gleam  v^i  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  drowned  by  the  rushing  tiae. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes,  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view; 
We  saw  not  the  angels  that  met  him  there, 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 


tjS  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale-* 

Darling  Minnie,  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hand^ 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark; 
We  watched  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side; 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be, 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  angel  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  spirit  shores 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail; 
And  lo!  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  hearU) 

They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye; 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day. 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore 

They  watch  and  beckon  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar; 
And  when  perchance  the  well-known  hail 

Again  shall  echo  along  the  strand, 
I  shall  pass  from  sight,  with  the  boatman  pale. 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  259 

I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 
And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 

When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 
The  angel  of  death  shall  carry  me. 

Nancy  WooDBURy  Pkiest. 


KEARNEY  AT  SEVEN   PINES. 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey — 
That  story  of  Kearney  who  knew  not  to  yield! 
'Twas  the  day  when  with  Jameson,    fierce   Berry   and 
Birney 
Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field, 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose 
highest. 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak 
and  pine 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest, 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearney's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our 
ground. 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leaped  up  at  a  bound. 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder; 
His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign. 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the 
louder — 
"  There's   the   devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the   whole 
line!" 


26o  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed!  how  we  saw  his  blaae 
brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left,  and  the  reins  in  his  teeth; 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  valley  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in,  through  the  clearing  or  pine? 
**0h,  anywhere!  Forward!     *Tis  all  the  same,  Colonel; 

You'll  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line! " 

Oh,  coil  the  black  shroud  of  the  night  at  Chantilly 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried! 
Foul!  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride. 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  in  that  shadowy  region. 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drum. 
mer's  sign. 
Rides  on  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 

And  the  word  still  is,  "  Forward! "  along  the  whole  line. 

E.  C.  Stedman, 


SPEAK  TO  US,  LORD. 

Speak  to  us.  Lord, 

For,  faint  and  weary. 
We  tread  with  faltering  step  the  world's  highway, 
While  overhead,  all  dark  and  dreary. 

Storm  clouds  are  chasing 

Fondest  hopes  away. 
And  fairy  promises  are  fading 
As  fade  the  stars  at  the  dawn  of  day. 
Speak  to  us.  Father,  from  Thy  throne  above, 
Whisper  some  message  of  tenderest  love. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  »€l 

Smile  on  us,  Lord, 
We  need  Thy  favor, 
Poor  wanderers  o'er  a  dark  and  stormy  main, 
In  vain  we  seek  to  gain  a  peaceful  haven, 
The  murmuring  billows 
Sigh,  "In  vain,  in, vain!" 
Our  sails  are  torn,  our  trusty  cable's  gone, 
The  darkness  gathers,  and    the  night  winds 
moan. 
Shine  on  our  way,  thou  Star  of  Bethlehem,  shine. 
And  fill  these  troubled  hearts  with  peace  divine. 

Elmo. 


FAREWEEL. 


Fareweel,  my  wee  lassie,  fareweel. 
Ye  were  dear  as  the  licht  to  mine  e'c, 

And  nae  ane  can  ken  what  I  feel 
In  this  sorrowfu'  parting  wi'  thee. 

A  welcome  wee  stranger  thou  wert. 
But  ye  didna  bide  lang  wi'  us  here. 

Ye  came  like  the  spring  to  my  heart. 
But  ye  left  all  withered  and  sere. 

Ah!  Mary,  I  canna  but  weep. 

For  my  heart  was  sae  wrapt  up  in  thee, 
I'd  fain  think  ye're  gane  but  to  sleep, 

And  ye'll  come  once  again  to  m)'^  knee. 

O,  thou  wert  a  beam  of  delight 

Which  sae  lighted  my  heart  up  wi'  joy! 

I  ne'er  thought  ye'd  fade  from  my  sight, 
Or  that  death  would  come  to  destroy. 


a62  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  the  bairns  are  a'  weepin'  for  thee, 
For  they've  lost  their  wee  playmate  an'  a', 

And  Johnnie  creeps  up  on  my  knee, 
And  he  asks  if  ye'll  aye  be  awa*. 

What  though  to  forget  thee  I  try, 
And  the  words  that  ye  lispit  to  me, 

The  streams  o'  this  heart  winna  dr)% 
And  all  nature  's  the  memory  o'  thee. 

The  sweet  little  birdies  that  sing, 
And  the  innocent  lambs  on  the  lea, 

The  bonnie  wee  flowers  o'  the  spring 
Are  a'  but  faint  shadows  o'  thee. 

If  this  weary  world  is  all, 

If  in  gladness  we'll  meet  not  again. 

Let  nature  be  wrapt  in  a  pall, 
For  affection  and  beauty  are  vain. 

Alexander  Maclasan. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTIAN. 

"  Thanks  be  to  God  for  the  mountains." 

For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God! 
Thou  hast  made  Thy  children  mighty. 

By  the  touch  of  the  mountain  sod. 
Thou  hast  fixed  our  ark  of  refuge 

Where  the  spoiler's  foot  ne'er  trod,- 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  Thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God? 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  a4f 

We  are  watchers  of  a  beacon 

Whose  lights  must  never  die; 
We  are  guardians  of  an  altar 

Midst  the  silence  of  the  sky; 
The  rocks  yield  founts  of  courage 

Struck  forth  as  by  thy  rod — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  Th««» 

O  God,  our  fathers'  God! 

For  the  dark,  resounding  heavens, 

Where  Thy  still  small  voice  is  heard, 
For  the  strong  pines  of  the  forests. 

That  by  Thy  breath  are  stirred; 
For  the  storms  on  whose  free  pinions 

Thy  spirit  walks  abroad — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  Thee, 

O  God,  our  fathers'  God! 

The  royal  eagle  darteth 

On  his  quarry  from  the  heights, 
And  the  stag  that  knows  no  master, 

Seeks  there  his  wild  delights; 
But  we  for  Thy  communion 

Have  sought  the  mountain  sod — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  Thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God! 

The  banner  of  the  chieftain 

Far,  far  below  us  waves; 
The  war-horse  of  the  spearman 

Cannot  reach  our  lofty  caves; 
Thy  dark  clouds  wrap  the  threshold 

Of  freedom's  last  abode; 


a64  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  Thee> 
Our  God,  our  fathers'  God! 

For  the  shadow  of  Thy  presence 
Round  our  camp  of  rock  outspread; 
i  For  the  stern  defiles  of  battle, 

Bearing  record  of  our  dead; 
For  the  snows,  and  for  the  torrents, 

For  the  free  heart's  burial  sod, 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  Thee, 
Our  God,  our  fathers'  God! 

Mrs.  Heman0. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LAND  OF  NOD. 

Come,  cuddle  your  head  on  my  shoulder,  dear, 

Your  head  like  the  golden-rod. 
And  we  will  go  sailing  away  from  here 

To  the  beautiful  Land  of  Nod. 
Away  from  life's  hurry,  and  flurry,  and  worry, 

Away  from  earth's  shadows  and  gloom. 
To  a  world  of  fair  weather  we'll  float  off  together. 

Where  roses  are  always  in  bloom. 

Just  shut  up  your  eyes  and  fold  your  hands — 

Your  hands  like  the  leaves  of  a  rose; 
And  we  will  go  sailing  to  those  fair  lands 

That  never  an  atlas  shows. 
On  the  North  and  the  West  they  are  bounded  by  rest, 

On  the  South  and  the  East  by  dreams, 
'Tis  the  country  ideal,  where  nothing  is  real, 

But  everything  only  seems. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  265 

Just  drop  down  the  curtain  of  your  dear  eye£. 

Those  eyes  of  a  bright  blue-bell, 
And  we  will  sail  out  under  starlit  skies, 

To  the  land  where  the  fairies  dwell. 
Down  the  river  of  sleep  our  barque  shall  sweep, 

Till  it  reaches  that  mystical  Isle 
Where  no  man  hath  seen,  but  where  all  have  been, 

And  there  we  will  pause  awhile. 
I  will  croon  you  a  song,  as  we  float  along, 

To  that  shore  that  is  blessed  of  God, 
Then  ho!  for  that  fair  land!  We're  off  for  that  rare  land! 

That  beautiful  Land  of  Nod. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 


THE   LAND  WHICH  NO  MORTAL   MAY   KNOW. 

Though  Earth  has  full  many  a  beautiful  spot. 

As  a  poet  or  painter  might  show. 
Yet  more  lovely  and  beautiful,  holy  and  bright. 
To  the  hopes  of  the  heart,  and  the  spirit's  glad  sight, 

Is  the  land  that  no  mortal  may  know. 

There  the  crystallin  i  stream  bursting  forth  from  the  throne 

Flows  on,  and  forever  will  flow; 
Its  waves,  as  they  roll,  are  with  melody  rife. 
And  its  waters  are  sparkling  with  beauty  and  life, 

In  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

And  there,  on  its  margin,  with  leaves  ever  green, 

With  its  fruits  healing  sickness  and  woe, 
The  fair  Tree  of  Life,  in  its  glory  and  pride, 
Is  fed  by  that  deep,  inexhaustible  tide. 

Of  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  kncv 


266  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

There,  too,  iire  the  lost!  whom  we  loved  on  thi» 

With  whose  mem'ries  our  bosoms  yet  glow; 
Their  relics  we  gave  to  the  place  of  the  dead, 
But  their  glorified  spirits  before  us  have  fled, 
To  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

There  the  pale  orb  of  night,  and  the  fountain  of  day, 

Nor  beauty  nor  splendor  bestow; 
But  the  presence  of  Him,  the  unchanging  I  AM! 
And  the  holy,  the  pure,  the  immaculate  Lamb! 

Light  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

Oh!  who  but  must  pine,  in  this  dark  vale  of  tears, 

From  its  clouds  and  its  shadows  to  go? 
To  walk  in  the  light  of  the  glory  above, 
And  to  share  in  the  peace,  and  the  joy,  and  the  love, 
Of  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

Bernard  Bartow, 


LIFE. 

I  made  a  posie,  while  the  day  ran  by: 
"  Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band." 
But  Time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and  they 
By  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 

And  withered  in  my  hand. 

My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then  my  heart. 
I  took,  without  more  thinking,  in  good  part 

Time's  gentle  admonition; 
Who  did  so  sweetly  death's  sad  taste  convey, 
Making  my  mind  to  smell  my  fatal  day, 

Yet  sugaring  the  suspicion. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  267 

Farewell,  dear  flowers!  sweetly  your  time  yc  spent; 
Fit,  while  )'e  lived,  for  smell  or  ornament, 

And,  after  death,  for  cures, 
I  -follow  strfi'^ght,  without  complaints  or  g^ef ; 
Since,  if  m     ^cent  be  good,  I  care  not  if 

It  be  as  short  as  yours. 

George  Herbsrt. 


THE   PLAIDIE. 

Upon  ane  stormy  Sunday, 

Coming  adoon  the  lane, 
Were  a  score  of  bonnie  lasses— 

And  the  sweetest  I  maintain 
Was  Caddie, 
That  I  took  unneath  my  plaidie, 

To  shield  her  from  the  rain. 

She  said  that  the  daisies  blushed 
For  the  kiss  that  I  had  ta'en; 

I  wad  na  hae  thought  the  lassie 

Wad  sae  of  a  kiss  complain: 

"  Now,  laddie! 

I  winna  stay  under  your  plaidie, 
I'll  gang  awa  hame  in  the  rain!  ** 

But,  on  an  after  Sunday, 

When  cloud  there  was  not  ane, 
This  selfsame  winsome  lassie 
(We  chanced  to  meet  in  the  lane) 
Said,  "  Laddie, 
Why  dinna  ye  wear  your  plaidier 
Wha  kens  Out  i '  may  rain?  " 

Charles  Sibley. 


268  FAVORITE  POEMS. 


TO  PRIMROSES,  FILLED  WITH  MORNING  DEW. 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes?     Can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you, 
Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 

Teemed  her  refreshing  dew? 
Alas!  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower, 
Nor  felt  the  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind; 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  year^ 
Or  warped  as  we, 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

Speak,  whimp'ring  younglings,  and  make  knowa 
The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 
Or  childish  lullaby? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweet  heart  to  this? 
No,  no;  this  sorrow  shown 
By  your  tears  shed, 
Would  have  this  lecture  read, — 
"That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceived  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears  brought 
forth." 

Robert  Herrick. 


FA  VORITE  POEMS.  269 

LOVE'S  FAREWELL. 

Love  has  come  and  gone  again: 

We  were  bound  and  we  were  free; 
Love  beloved  of  wiser  men 

Never  stays  too  long  with  me. 
This  was  just  the  golden  hour! 

Since  the  shadow  of  regret — 
Odor  of  a  faded  flower — 

Sweetens  my  resentment  yet. 
When  it  seems  no  sin  to  say, 
"  All  my  love  I  dare  not  tell!  " 
Could  I  then  foresee  this  day? 

While  I  loved,  I  loved  you  well. 
Seas  shall  sing,  though  lips  be  dumb; 

Winters  laugh  with  leaping  streams 
Amber  fields  of  summer  come, 

Smiling,  spite  of  haggard  dreams 
I  shall  find  what  peace  there  is! 

Sweetheart  lost,  adieu,  adieu! 
Lips  of  mine  you  will  not  miss; 

Other  loves  will  comfort  you. 

Anonymous. 


SPRING. 


Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power 

Makes  all  things  new. 
And  domes  the  red-plowed  hills 

With  loving  blue; 
The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 

The  throstles  too. 


tfO  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

Opens  a  door  in  Heaven; 

From  skies  of  glass 
A  Jacob's  ladder  falls 

On  greening  grass, 
And  o'er  the  mountain-walls 

Young  angels  pass. 

Before  them  fleets  the  shower. 
And  burst  the  buds, 

And  shine  the  level  lands. 
And  flash  the  floods; 

The  stars  are  from  their  hanAl 
Flung  thro'  the  woods. 

The  woods  by  living  airs 
How  freshly  fann'd, 

Light  airs  from  where  the  deep 
All  down  the  sand, 

Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 
Heard  by  the  land! 

Oh,  follow,  leaping  blood, 

The  season's  lure! 
Oh,  heart,  look  down  and  up^ 

Serene,  secure, 
Warm  as  the  crocus-cup. 

Like  snow-drops,  pure! 

Past,  future,  glimpse  and  fade 
Thro'  some  slight  spell. 

Some  gleam  from  yonder  vaiCp 
Some  far  blue  fell, 

And  sympathies,  how  frail. 
In  sound  and  smell. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  tjl 

Till  at  thy  chuckled  note, 

Thou  twinkling  bird, 
The  fairy  fancies  range, 

And,  lightly  stirr'd, 
Ring  little  bells  of  change 

From  word  to  word. 

For  now  the  Heavenly  Power 

Makes  all  things  new, 
And  thaws  the  cold  and  fills 

The  flower  with  dew. 
The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 

The  poets  too. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


THE   COMING   OF   CHRIST. 

Lord!  come  away! 

Why  dost  Thou  stay? 

Thy  road  is  ready,  and  Thy  paths,  made  straight, 

With  longing  expectation  wait 

The  consecration  of  Thy  beauteous  feet, 

Ride  on  triumphantly!     Behold,  we  lay 

Our  lusts  and  proud  wills  in  Thy  way — 

Hosanna!  and  Thy  glorious  foo1:steps  greet! 

Welcome,  oh,  welcome!  to  our  hearts!  Lord,  here, 

Thou  hast  a  temple  too,  and  full  as  dear 

As  that  in  Zion,  and  as  full  of  sin. 

How  long  shall  thieves  and  robbers  dwell  therein? 

Enter,  and  chase  them  forth,  and  cleanse  the  floor! 

Destroy  their  strength,  that  they  may  never  more 

Profane  that  holy  place 


»']2  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Which  Thou  hast  chosen  there  to  set  Thy  face; 

And  then,  if  our  stiff  tongues  shall  be 

Mute  in  the  praises  of  Thy  Deity, 

The  stones  from  out  the  temple  wall 

Shall  cry  aloud,  and  call — 

Hosanna!  and  Thy  glorious  footsteps  greet- 

Jeremy  Taylor, 


HEBREW  HYMN. 

When  Israel  of  the  Lord  belov'd 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  father's  God  before  her  mov'd, 

An  awful  guide,  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonish'd  lands, 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimson'd  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answer'd  keen; 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays. 

With  priests'  and  warriors'  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen, 
When  brightly  shines  the  prosp'rous  day 

Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen, 
To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  273 

And  oh!  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path. 
In  shade  and  storm,  the  frequent  night, 

Be  Thou  long  sufE'ring,  slow  to  wrath, 
A  burning  and  a  shining  light. 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams, 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said,  the  blood  of  goat, 

The  flesh  of  rams  I  will  not  prize; 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 

Are  more  accepted  sacrifice. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE  DOUBTING  HEART. 

Where  are  the  swallows  fled? 
Frozen  and  dead 
Perchance  upon  some  bleak  and  stormy  shore. 
O  doubting  heart! 
Far  over  purple  seas 
They  wait,  in  sunny  ease. 
The  balmy  southern  breeze 
To  bring  them  to  their  northern  homes  once  more; 

Why  must  the  flowers  die? 

Prisoned  they  lie 
In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or  rain. 
O  doubting  heart! 
They  only  sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow 
While  winter  winds  shall  blow, 
To  breathe  and  smile  upon  you  soon  again. 


a74  JAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 

These  many  days; 
Will  dreary  hours  never  leave  the  earth? 
O  doubting  heart! 
The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky 
That  soon,  for  spring  is  nigh, 
Shall  wake  the  summer  into  golden  mirth. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 

Is  quenched  in  night; 
What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  despair? 
O  doubting  heart! 
The  sky  is  overcast, 
Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 
Brighter  for  darkness  past, 
And  angels'  silver  voices  stir  the  air. 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 


WE   SHALL   KNOW. 

When  the  mists  have  rolled  in  splendor 

From  the  beauty  of  the  hills, 
And  the  sunshine,  warm  and  tender, 

Falls  in  kisses  on  the  rills, 
Wc  may  read  love's  shining  letter 

In  the  rainbow  of  the  spray; 
We  shall  know  each  other  better 

When  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 
We  shall  know  as  we  are  knorvn, 
Never  more  to  walk  alone. 
In  the  dawning  of  the  morning, 

When  the  mists  have  rleared  aw0V. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  2J$ 

If  we  err  in  human  blindness, 

And  forget  that  we  are  dust, 
If  we  miss  the  law  of  kindness, 

When  we  struggle  to  be  just, 
Snowy  wings  of  peace  shall  cover 

All  the  pain  that  clouds  our  way. 
When  the  weary  watch  is  over, 

And  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 
We  shall  know  as  we  are  known, 
Never  more  to  walk  alone, 
In  the  dawning  of  the  morning, 

When  the  mists  have  cleared  away 

When  the  silvery  mists  have  veiled  us 

From  the  faces  of  our  own, 
Oft  we  deem  their  love  has  failed  us, 

And  we  tread  our  path  alone; 
We  should  see  them  near  and  truly; 
We  should  trust  them  day  by  day. 
Neither  love  nor  blame  unduly, 
If  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 
We  shall  know  as  we  are  known. 
Never  more  to  walk  alone. 
In  the  dawning  of  the  morning. 
When  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 

Anonymous. 


MAJESTY   IN   MISERY;* 

OR,  AN  IMPLORATION  TO  THE  KING  OF  KINGS. 

Great  Monarch  of  the  World,  from  whose  Power  Springs 
The  Potency  and  Power  of  Kings, 
Record  the  Royal  Woe  my  Suffering  sings: 

*  Writtea  ia  captivity  in  Cari^rook  Castle,  Isle  of  Wight,  November,  1648. 


276  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And  teach  my  tongue,  that  ever  did  confine 

Its  faculties  in  Truth's  Seraphic  Line, 

To  track  the  Treasons  of  Thy  foes  and  mine. 

Nature  and  law,  by  Thy  Divine  Decree 
The  only  Root  of  Righteous  Royaltie, 
With  this  dim  Diadem  invested  me: 

With  it  the  sacred  Scepter,  Purple  Robe, 
The  Holy  Unction,  and  the  Royal  Globe: 
Yet  am  I  leveled  with  the  life  of  Job. 

The  fiercest  Furies,  that  do  daily  tread 
Upon  my  Grief,  my  Gray  Dis-crowned  Head, 
Are  those  that  owe  my  Bounty  for  their  Bread. 

They  raise  a  War,  and  Christen  it  The  Cause. 
Whilst  sacrilegious  hands  have  best  applause. 
Plunder  and  Murder  are  the  Kingdom's  Laws; 

Tyranny  bears  the  Title  of  Taxation, 
Revenge  and  Robbery  are  Reformation, 
Oppression  gains  the  name  of  Sequestration. 

My  loyal  Subjects,  who  in  this  bad  season 
Attend  me,  by  the  Law  of  God  and  Reason, 
They  dare  impeach  and  punish  for  High  Treason. 

Next  at  the  Clergy  do  their  Furies  frown; 

Pious  Episcopacy  must  go  down; 

They  will  destroy  the  Crosier  and  the  Crown. 

Churchmen  are  chained  and  Schismaticks  are  free'd, 
Mechanicks  preach,  and  Holy  Fathers  bleed. 
The  Crown  is  crucified  with  the  Creed. 


FAVORITE  POEM  It.  27; 

The  Church  of  England  doth  all  factions  foster, 
The  pulpit  is  usurped  by  each  impostor 
Extempore  excludes  the  Pater  Noster. 

The  Presbyter  and  Independent  seed 

Springs  with  broad  blades;  to  make  Religion  bleed, 

Herod  and  Pontius  Pilate  are  agreed. 

The  corner-stone's  misplaced  by  every  Pavier; 
With  such  a  bloody  method  and  behavior 
Their  Ancestors  did  crucify  our  Saviour. 

My  Royal  Consort,  from  whose  fruitful  Womb 
So  many  Princes  legally  have  come, 
Is  forced  in  Pilgrimage  to  seek  a  Tomb. 

Great  Britain's  Heir  is  forced  into  France, 
Whilst  on  his  father's  head  his  foes  advance: 
Poor  child!    He  weeps  at  his  Inheritance. 

With  my  own  Power  my  Majesty  they  wound 

In  the  King's  name  the  King  himself's  uncrowned; 

So  doth  the  Dust  destroy  the  Diamond. 

With  Propositions  daily  they  enchant 

My  People's  ears,  such  as  do  reason  daunt, 

And  the  Almighty  will  not  let  me  grant. 

They  promise  to  erect  my  Royal  Stem, 
To  make  Me  great,  t'  advance  my  Diadem, 
If  I  will  first  fall  down,  and  worship  them. 

But,  for  refusal,  they  devour  my  Thrones, 
Distress  my  Children,  and  destroy  my  bones; 
I  fear  they'll  force  me  to  make  bread  of  stones. 


278  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

My  Life  ttiey  prize  at  such  a  slender  rate 

That  in  my  absence  they  draw  Bills  of  hate, 

To  prove  the  King  a  Traitor  to  the  State.  j 

Felons  obtain  more  privilege  than  I: 
They  are  allowed  to  answer  ere  they  die; 
'Tis  death  for  me  to  ask  the  reason  Why. 

But,  Sacred  Saviour,  with  thy  words  I  woo 

Thee  to  forgive,  and  not  be  bitter  to 

Such  as  thou  know'st  do  not  know  what  they  do. 

For  since  they  from  their  Lord  are  so  disjointed 
As  to  contemn  those  Edicts  he  appointed, 
How  can  they  prize  the  Power  of  his  Anointed? 

Augment  my  Patience,  nullifie  my  Hate, 
Preserve  my  Issue,  and  inspire  my  Mate: 
Yet,  though  We  perish,  bless  this  Church  and  State. 

King  Charles  the  First. 


THERE'S  NAE  LUCK  ABOUT  THE  HOUSE. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark? 
Ye  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel; 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread. 

When  Colin's  at  the  door? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay, 
And  see  him  come  ashore. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There's  nae  luck  at  a'; 
There's  nae  luck  about  the  house 
When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  *79 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop's-satin  gown; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 

That  Colin's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  stockins  pearly  blue; 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 
Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  cotton  gown. 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa'. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  bank. 

They've  fed  this  month  and  mair; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare; 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'? 
Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in  't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair, — 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet! 


28o  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter  wind, 

That  thirled  through  my  heart, 
They're  a'  blown  by,  I  hae  him  safe, 

Till  death  we'll  never  part: 
But  what  puts  parting  in  my  head? 

It  may  be  far  awa'; 
The  present  moment  is  our  ain. 

The  neist  we  never  saw. 

If  Colin's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave: 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave: 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again? 
And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 
In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a'; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 
When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

William  J.  Mickle. 


THE  TERRACE  AT  BERNE. 

Ten  years! — and  to  my  waking  eye 
Once  more  the  roofs  of  Berne  appear; 

The  rocky  banks,  the  terrace  high, 
The  stream, — and  do  I  linger  here? 

The  clouds  are  on  the  Oberland, 

The  Jungfrau  snows  look  faint  and  far; 

But  bright  are  those  green  fields  at  hand. 

And  through  those  fields  comes  down  the  Aar, 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  i^l 

And  from  the  blue  twin  lakes  it  comes, 
Flows  by  the  town,  the  churchyard  fair, 

And  'neath  the  garden-walk  it  hums, 

The  house, — and  is  my  Marguerite  there? 

Ah,  shall  I  see  thee,  while  a  flush 

Of  startled  pleasure  floods  thy  brow, 

Quick  through  the  oleanders  brush. 
And  clap  thy  hands,  and  cry,  '  Tis  thou? 

Or  hast  thou  long  since  wandered  back. 
Daughter  of  France!  to  France,  thy  home; 

And  flitted  down  the  flowery  track 

Where  feet  like  thine  too  lightly  come? 

Doth  riotous  laughter  now  replace 

Thy  smile,  and  rouge,  with  stony  glare, 

Thy  cheek's  soft  hue,  and  fluttering  lace 
The  kerchief  that  enwound  thy  hair? 

Or  is  it  over? — art  thou  dead? — 
Dead? — and  no  warning  shiver  ran 

Across  my  heart,  to  say  thy  thread 
Of  life  was  cut,  and  closed  thy  span! 

Could  from  earth's  ways  that  figure  slight 

Be  lost,  and  I  not  feel  'twas  so? 
Of  that  fresh  voice  the  gay  delight 

Fail  from  earth's  air,  and  I  not  know? 

Or  shall  I  find  thee  still,  but  changed, 
But  not  the  Marguerite  of  thy  prime? 

With  all  thy  being  rearranged, 

Passed  through  the  crucible  of  time; 


aSa  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

With  spirit  vanished,  beauty  waned, 
And  hardly  yet  a  glance,  a  tone, 

A  gesture, — anything, — retained 

Of  all  that  was  my  Marguerite's  own? 

Like  driftwood  spars  which  meet  and  pass 
Upon  the  boundless  ocean-plain, 

So  on  the  sea  of  life,  alas! 

Man  nears  man,  meets,  and  leaves  again. 

I  knew  it  when  my  life  was  young, 
I  feel  it  still,  now  youth  is  o'er! 

The  mists  are  on  the  mountain  hung. 
And  Marguerite  I  shall  see  no  more. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


SEASIDE   THOUGHTS. 

Beautiful,  sublime,  and  glorious, 
Mild,  majestic,  foaming,  free! 

Over  time  itself  victorious, 
Image  of  eternity. 

Sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  shine  o'er  thee, 
See  thy  surface  ebb  and  flow; 

Yet  attempt  not  to  explore  thee 
In  thy  soundless  depths  below. 

Whether  morning's  splendor  steep  thee 
With  the  rainbow's  glowing  grace, 

Temf)ests  rouse,  or  navies  sweep  thee, 
'  Tis  but  for  a  moment's  space. 


FAVORITE  POEMS. 


283 


Earth,  her  valleys  and  her  mountains, 

Mortal  man's  behest  obey; 
Thy  unfathomable  fountains 

Scoff  his  search  and  scorn  his  sway. 

Such  art  thou,  stupendous  ocean! 

But,  if  overwhelmed  by  thee, 
Can  we  think  without  emotion 

What  must  thy  Creator  be? 

Bernard  Bartoh. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  FAITHFUL  SOUL. 

The  fettered  spirits  linger 

In  purgatorial  pain. 
With  penal  fires  effacing 

Their  last  faint  earthly  stain, 
Which  life's  imperfect  sorrow 

Had  tried  to  cleanse  in  vain. 

Yet  on  each  feast  of  Mary 

Their  sorrow  finds  release, 
For  the  great  archangel  Michael 

Comes  down  and  bids  it  cease; 
And  the  name  of  these  brief  respites 

Is  called  "  Our  Lady's  Peace." 

Yet  once— so  runs  the  legend — 
When  the  archangel  came, 

And  all  these  holy  spirits 
Rejoiced  at  Mary's  name, 

One  voice  alone  was  wailing, 
Still  wailing  »n  the  same. 


384  FAVORITE  POEMS.- 

And  though  a  great  Te  Deum 
The  happy  echoes  woke, 

This  one  discordant  wailing 

Through  the  sweet  voices  broke: 

So  when  Saint  Michael  questioned^ 
Thus  the  poor  spirit  spoke: 

"  I  am  not  cold  or  thankless, 
Although  I  still  complain; 

I  prize  our  Lady's  blessing, 
Although  it  comes  in  vain 

To  still  my  bitter  anguish 
Or  quench  my  ceaseless  pain. 

"  On  earth  a  heart  that  loved  me 
Still  lives  and  mourns  me  there, 
And  the  shadow  of  his  anguish 
Is  more  than  I  can  bear; 
»  All  the  torment  that  I  suffer 

Is  the  thought  of  his  despair. 

"  The  evening  of  my  bridal 
Death  took  my  life  away; 

Not  all  love's  passionate  pleading 
Could  gain  an  hour's  delay. 

And  he  I  left  has  suffered 
A  whole  year  since  that  day. 

**  If  I  could  only  see  him — 
If  I  could  only  go 
And  speak  one  word  of  comfort 

And  solace — then  I  know 
He  would  endure  with  patience 
And  strive  against  his  woe." 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  285 

Thus  the  archangel  answered: 

"  Your  time  of  pain  is  brief, 

And  soon  the  peace  of  heaven 

Will  give  you  full  relief; 
Yet  if  his  earthly  comfort 

So  much  outweighs  your  grief, 

"  Then,  through  a  special  mercy, 
I  offer  you  this  grace,— 
You  may  seek  him  who  mourns  you 

And  look  upon  his  face, 
And  speak  to  him  of  comfort 
For  one  short  minute's  space. 

"  But  when  that  time  is  ended. 
Return  here  and  remain 
A  thousand  years  in  torment, 

A  thousand  years  in  pain; 
Thus  dearly  you  must  purchase 
The  comfort  he  will  gain." 

The  lime-tree's  shade  at  evening 

Is  spreading  broad  and  wide; 
Beneath  their  fragrant  arches, 

Pace  slowly,  side  by  side, 
In  low  and  tender  converse, 

A  bridegroom  and  his  bride. 

The  night  is  calm  and  stilly. 

No  other  sound  is  there 
Except  their  happy  voices: 

What  is  that  cold,  bleak  air 
That  passes  through  the  lime-trees. 

And  stirs  the  bridegroom's  hair? 


286  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

While  one  low  cr^^  of  anguish, 

Like  the  last  dying  wail 
Of  some  dumb,  hunted  creature. 

Is  borne  upon  the  gale; 
Why  does  the  bridegroom  shudder. 

And  turn  so  deathly  pale? 

'  Near  purgatory's  entrance 

The  radiant  angels  wait; 
It  was  the  great  Saint  Michael 

Who  closed  the  gloomy  gate, 
When  the  poor  wandering  spirit 

Came  back  to  meet  her  fate.  ' 

"Pass  on,"  thus  spoke  the  angel; 
"  Heaven's  joy  is  deep  and  vast: 
Pass  on,  pass  on,  poor  spirit, 

For  heaven  is  yours  at  last; 
In  that  one  minute's  anguish 

Your  thousand  years  have  passed." 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 


RETROSPECTION. 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under  world; 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  287 

'iTiat  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge, — 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are 'for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, — 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


THE  LOVE-KNOT. 

Tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in. 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair, 
For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  up  the  hill, 

Where  the  wind  came  blowing  merry  and  chill; 

And  it  blew  the  curls  a  frolicsome  race, 

All  over  the  happy  peach-colored  face. 

Till  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied  them  in, 

Under  her  beautiful  dimpled  chin. 

O  western  wind,  do  you  think  it  was  fair 
To  play  such  tricks  with  her  floating  hair? 


i88  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

To  gladly,  gleefully  do  your  best 

To  blow  her  against  the  young  man's  breast. 

Where  he  has  gladly  folded  her  in, 

And  kissed  her  mouth  and  dimpled  chin? 

O  Ellery  Vane,  you  little  thought 
An  hour  ago,  when  you  besought 
This  country  lass  to  walk  with  you, 
After  the  sun  had  dried  the  dew, 
What  terrible  danger  you'd  be  in. 
As  she  tied  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 

Nora  Perry. 


OUR   ERNEST. 

SKEINTON  TOWERS,   GOOD   FRIDAY,   1884. 

"His  sun  went  down  while  it  was  yet  day;  it  went  not  dow« 
behind  a  cloud,  but  melted  into  the  pure  light  of  Heaven." 

His  sun  went  down  in  the  morning, 

While  all  was  fair  and  bright; 
But  'twas  not  an  eclipse  of  darkness 

That  hid  him  from  our  sight: 

For  the  valley  of  death  was  brighter 

Than  the  hills  of  life  he  trod. 
And  the  peace  that  fell  on  his  spirit 

Was  the  calm,  deep  peace  of  God. 

He  knew  in  whom  he  trusted. 

He  counted  all  things  loss, 
And  clung  with  the  arms  of  faith  and  love 

To  the  Christ  and  to  His  Cross. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  2od 

And  from  that  Cross  a  radiance 

Fell  with  a  softening  beam, 
That  shone  through  the  depths  of  the  shadowy 
vale, 

And  brightened  death's  narrow  stream. 

His  sun  went  down  in  the  morning, 

While  all  was  fair  and  bright; 
But  it  shines  to-day  on  the  far-away  hills. 

In  the  land  that  knows  no  night. 

Elmo. 


THE  HAND  OF  LINCOLN. 

Look  on  this  cast,  and  know  the  hand 

That  bore  a  nation  in  its  hold; 
From  this  mute  witness  understand 

What  Lincoln  was — how  large  of  mold 

The  man  who  sped  the  woodman's  team, 
And  deepest  sunk  the  plowman's  share. 

And  pushed  the  laden  raft  astream, 
Of  fate  before  him  unaware. 

This  was  the  hand  that  knew  to  swing 
The  ax — since  thus  would  Freedom  train 

Her  son— and  made  the  forest  ring, 

And  drove  the  wedge,  and  toiled  amain. 

Firm  hand,  that  loftier  office  took, 
A  conscious  leader's  will  obeyed, 

And,  when  men  sought  his  word  and  look, 
With  steadfast  might  the  gathering  swayed 


«<iO  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

No  courtiers,  toying  with  a  sword, 
Nor  minstrel's,  laid  across  a  lute; 

A.  chief's,  uplifted  to  the  Lord, 

When  all  the  kings  of  earth  were  mute! 

The  hand  of  Anak,  sinewed  strong. 
The  fingers  that  on  greatness  clutch. 

Yet,  lo!  the  marks  their  lines  along 
Of  one  who  strove  and  suffered  much. 

For  here  in  knotted  cord  and  vein 
I  trace  the  varying  chart  of  years; 

I  know  the  troubled  heart,  the  strain, 
The  weight  of  Atlas — and  the  tears. 

Again  I  see  the  patient  brow, 

That  palm  erewhile  was  wont  to  press; 

And  now  'tis  furrowed  deep,  and  now 
Made  smooth  with  hope  and  tenderness. 

For  something  of  a  formless  grace 
This  molded  outline  plays  about; 

A  pitying  flame,  beyond  our  trace, 
Breathes  like  a  spirit — in  and  ou^. 

The  love  that  cast  an  aureole 

Round  one  who,  longer  to  endure, 

Called  mirth  to  ease  his  ceaseless  dole, 
Yet  kept  his  nobler  purpose  sure. 

Lo,  as  I  gaze,  the  statured  man, 

Built  up  from  yon  large  hand,  appears; 

A  type  that  Nature  wills  to  plan 
But  once  in  aU  a  people's  years. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  291 

What  better  than  this  voiceless  cast 

To  tell  of  such  a  one  as  he, 
Since  through  its  living  semblance  passed 

The  thought  that  bade  a  race  be  free  ! 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


GOOD  KING  WENCESLES. 

Good  King  Wencesles  looked  out, 

On  the  Feast  of  Stephen; 
When  the  snow  lay  round  about, 

Deep  and  crisp,  and  even; 
Brightly  shone  the  moon  that  night, 

Though  the  frost  was  cruel, 
When  a  poor  man  came  in  sight, 

Gathering  winter  fuel. 

**  Hither,  page,  and  stand  by  me. 
If  thou  know'st  it,  telling. 
Yonder  peasant,  who  is  he? 

Where  and  what  his  dwelling?" 
"  Sire,  he  lives  a  good  league  hence. 
Underneath  the  mountain, 
Right  against  the  forest  fence. 
By  St.  Agnes'  fountain!  " 

"  Bring  me  flesh  and  bring  me  wine. 
Bring  me  pine  logs  hither; 

Thou  and  I  will  see  him  dine, 
When  we  bear  them  thither.*" 

Page  and  monarch  forth  they  went. 
Forth  they  went  together. 


292  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Through  the  rude  wind's  wile*  lament, 
And  the  bitter  weather. 

"  Sire,  the  night  is  darker  now, 
And  the  wind  blows  stronger; 
Fails  my  heart  I  know  not  how, 
I  can  go  no  longer." 
"  Mark  my  footsteps,  good  my  page, 
Tread  thou  in  them  boldly; 
Thou  shalt  find  the  winter's  rage 
Freeze  thy  blood  less  coldly." 

In  his  master's  steps  he  trod. 

Where  the  snow  lay  dinted; 
Heat  was  in  the  very  sod, 

Which  the  Saint  had  printed. 
Therefore,  Christian  men,  be  sure. 

Wealth  or  rank  possessing, 
Ye  who  now  will  bless  the  poor 

Shall  yourselves  find  blessing. 

Anonymous. 


THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

She  gathered  at  her  slender  waist 
The  beauteous  robes  she  wore; 

Its  folds  a  golden  belt  embraced, 
One  rose-hued  gem  it  bore. 

The  girdle  shrank;  its  lessening  round 
Still  kept  the  shining  gem, 

But  now  her  flowing  locks  it  bound, 
A  lustrous  diadem. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  293 

And  narrower  still  the  circlet  grew; 

Behold!  a  glittering  band, 
Its  roseate  diamonds  set  anew, 

Her  neck's  white  column  spanned. 

Suns  rise  and  set;  the  straining  clasp 

The  shortened  links  resist, 
Yet  flashes  in  a  bracelet's  grasp, 

The  diamond,  on  her  wrist. 

At  length,  the  round  of  changes  past, 

The  thieving  years  could  bring, 
The  jewel,  glittering  to  the  last, 

Still  sparkles  in  a  ring. 

So,  link  by  link,  our  friendships  part, 

So  loosen,  break,  and  fall, 
A  narrowing  zone;  the  loving  heart 

Lives  changeless  through  them  all. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


RISE,  HEART;  THY  LORD  IS  RISEN.     SING  HIS 
PRAISE. 

Rise,  heart;  thy  Lord  is  risen.     Sing  His  praise. 

Without  delays. 
Who  takes  thee  by  the  hand,  that  thou  likewise 

With  Him  mayst  rise; 
That,  as  His  death  calcined  thee  to  dust. 
His  life  may  make  thee  gold,  and  much  more  just» 

Awake,  my  lute,  and  struggle  for  thy  part 
With  all  thy  art*. 


294  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

The  crosse  taught  all  wood  to  resound  His  name 

Who  bore  the  same; 
His  stretched  sinews  taught  all  strings  what  key 
Is  best  to  celebrate  this  most  high  day. 

Consort,  both  heart  and  lute,  and  twist  a  song 

Pleasant  and  long; 
Or,  since  all  musick  is  but  three  parts  vied 

And  multiplied, 
Oh,  let  thy  blessed  Spirit  bear  a  part, 
And  make  up  our  defects  with  His  sweet  art! 

I  got  me  flowers  to  straw  Thy  way; 

1  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree; 
But  Thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day. 

And  brought'st  Thy  sweets  along  with  Thee. 

The  Sunne  arising  in  the  East, 

Though  he  give  light,  and  th'  East  perfume, 
If  they  should  offer  to  contest 

Why  Thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  be  any  day  but  this, 

Though  many  sunnes  to  shine  endeavor? 

We  count  three  hundred;  but  we  misse, 
There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 

George  Herbert. 


A  SERMON    FOR   THE   SISTERS. 

I  nebber  breaks  a  colt  afore  he's  old  enough  to  trabbel: 
I  nebber  digs  my  taters  till  dey  plenty  big  to  grabble; 
Ar'  when  you  sees  me  rism'  up  to  structify  in  meetin', 
I's  fust  dumb  up  de  knowledge-tree  and  done  some  apple- 
eatin'. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  295 

\  sees  some  sistahs  pruzint,  mighty  proud  o'  what  dey 

wearin', 
It's  well  you  isn't  apples,  now,  you  better  be  declarin'! 
For  when  you  heerd  yo'  market  price,  't  'd  hurt  yo'  little 

feelin's: 
You   wouldn't   fotch  a  dime  a  peck,  fo'  all    yo'  fancy 

peelin's. 

0  sistahs  —  leetle  apples  (for  you're  r'ally  mighty  like 

'em) — 

1  lubs  de  ol'-time  russets,  dough  its  suldom  I  kin  strike 

'em; 
An'  so  I  lubs  you,  sistahs,  for  yo'  grace,  an' not  yo' graces — 
I  don't  keer  how  my  apple  looks,  but  on'y  how  it  tas'es. 

Is  dey  a  Sabbaf-scholah  heah?     Den  let  him  'form  his 

mudder 
How  Jacob-in-de-Bible's  boys  played  off  upon  dey  brud- 

der! 
Dey  sol'  him  to  a  trader — an'  at  las'  he  struck  de  prison: 
Dat  corned  ob  Joseph's  struttin'  in  dat  streaked  coat  ob 

his'n. 

My  Christian  frien's,  dis  story  proobes  dat  eben  men  is 

human — 
He'd  had  a  dozen  fancy  coats,  ef  he'd  'a'  been  a  'ooman! 
De  cussidness  ob  showin'  off,  he  foun'  out  all  about  it: 
An'  yit  he  wuz  a  Christian  man,  as  good  as  ever  shouted. 

It  larned  him!     An'  I  bet  you  when  he  come  to  git  his 

riches 
Dey  didn't  go  for  stylish  coats  or  Philadelphy  breeches; 
He  didn't  was'e  his  money  when  experunce  taught  him 

better, 
But  went  aroun'  a-lookin'  like  he's  waitin'  for  a  letter! 


296  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Now,  sistahs,  won't  you  copy  him?    Say,  won't  you  take 

a  lesson, 
An'  min'  dis  solium  wahnin'  'bout  de  sin  ob  fancy  dressin'? 
How  much  yo'  spen'  upon  yo'se'f!     I  wish  you  might 

remember 
Yo'  preacher  ain't  been  paid  a  cent  sence  somewhar  in 

November. 

^  better  close.     I   sees  some  gals  dis  sahmon's  kinder 

hittin' 
A-whisperin',  an'  'sturbin'  all  dat's  near  whar  de)^'s  a-sittin' ; 
To  look  at  dem,  an'  listen  at  dey  onrespec'ful  jabber, 
It  turns  de  milk  ob  human  kineness  mighty  nigh  to  clab- 
ber! 

A-a-a-men! 

Irwin  RusselLw 


"ABIDE  WITH  ME." 

Origin  of  the  Hymn. — In  the  autumn  of  1847,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lyte  was  advised  to 
go  for  a  time  to  the  south  of  France,  in  the  hope  that  a  warmer  climate  would 
strengthen  his  failing  health.  Before  leaving  England  he  wished  once  piore  to 
preach  to  his  people.  His  family  feared  what  the  result  of  such  an  effort  might  be, 
but  he  gently  iHsisted,  and  was  able  to  go  through  with  the  service.  He  knew  that 
he  was  preaching  for  the  last  time,  and  his  sermon  was  full  of  solemn  and  tender 
appeals  to  those  whom  he  had  guided  and  instructed  for  many  years.  At  the  end 
of  the  service  he  retired,  exhausted  in  body,  but  with  his  soul  sweetly  resting  on 
that  Savior  whom  he  had  preached  with  his  dying  breath.  As  the  evenmg  drew  on 
he  handed  to  a  member  of  his  family  the  following  beautiful  hymn,  which  he  had 
just  written.  This  was  his  last  hymn  on  earth.  He  reached  Nice,  and  shortly  after 
Ins  spirit  entered  into  rest.  He  pointed  upward  as  he  passed  away,  and  whispered, 
"  Peace,  joy!  "  Thus  he  went  to  abide  forever  with  Him  who  has  declared  it  to  b€ 
His  divine  will  that  His  followers  be  with  Him  where  He  is,  that  they  may  behold 
H  is  glory. 

Abide  with  me!     Fast  falls  the  eventide; 
The  darkness  deepens:  Lord,  with  me  abide! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  O,  abide  with  me! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  297 

Swift  to  it*  w4ose  ebbs  out  life's  little  day, 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim,  its  glories  pass  away; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see; 
Oh,  Thou  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me! 

Not  a  brief  glance,  I  beg,  a  passing  word, 
But  as  Thou  dwelt  with  Thy  disciples.  Lord, 
Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free. 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide  with  me! 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of  Kings; 
But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in  Thy  wings; 
Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea: 
Come,  Friend  of  sinners,  and  abide  with  me! 

Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youth  didst  smile. 
And  though  rebellious  and  perverse,  meanwhile,  , 

Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left  Thee. 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me! 

I  need  Thy  presence  every  passing  hour: 
What  but  Thy  grace  can  foil  the  tempter's  power? 
Who  like  Thyself  my  Guide  and  Stay  can  be? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  O,  abide  with  me! 

I  fear  no  foe  with  Thee  at  hand  to  bless. 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness; 
Where  is  death's  sting?  where,  grave,  thy  victory? 
I  triumph  still,  if  Thou  abide  with  me! 

Hold  Thou  Thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes, 
Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  point  me  to  the  skies: 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  earth's  vain  shadows 

flee  ; 
In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 

W.  H.  Lytf.. 


298  FAVORITE  POEMS, 


PLIGHTED. 

Mine  to  the  core  of  the  heart,  my  beauty! 
Mine,  all  mine,  and  for  love,  not  duty! 
Love  given  willingly,  full  and  free, 
Love  for  love's  sake, — as  mine  to  thee. 
Duty's  a  slave  that  keeps  the  keys, 
But  Love,  the  master,  goes  in  and  out 
Of  his  goodly  chambers  with  song  and  shout, 
Just  as  he  please — just  as  he  please. 

Mine,  from  the  dear  head's  crown,  brown-golden, 

To  the  silken  foot  that's  scarce  beholden; 

Give  to  a  few  friends  hand  or  smile, 

Like  a  generous  lady,  now  and  awhile, 

But  the  sanctuary  heart,  that  none  dare  win, 

Keep  holiest  of  holiest  evermore; 

The  crowd  in  the  aisles  may  watch  the  door, 

The  high-priest  only  enters  in. 

Mine,  my  own,  without  doubts  or  terrors. 

With  all  thy  goodness,  all  thy  errors. 

Unto  me  and  to  me  alone  revealed, 

A  spring  shut  up,  a  fountain  sealed." 

Many  may  praise  thee — praise  mine  as  thine; 

Many  may  love  thee — I'll  love  them  too; 

But  thy  heart  of  hearts,  pure,  faithful  and  true, 

Must  be  mine,  mine  wholly,  and  only  mine. 

Mine!   God,  I  thank  Thee  that  Thou  hast  given 
Something  all  mine  on  this  side  heaven; 
Something  as  much  myself  to  be 
As  this  my  soul  which  I  lift  to  Thee: 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  299 

Flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone, 
Life  of  my  Hfe,  whom  Thou  dost  make 
Two  to  the  world  for  the  world's  work's  sake — 
But  each  unto  each,  as  in  thy  sight,  one. 

Mrs.  Craik. 


THE  MODEL  CHURCH. 

Well,  wife,  I've  found  the  model  church!     I  worshiped 

there  to-day; 
It  made  me  think  of  good  old  times,  before  my  hairs 

were  gray. 
The  meetin'-house  was  finer  built  than  they  were  years 

ago; 
But  then  I  found,  when  I  went  in,  it  wasn't  built   for 

show. 

The  sexton  didn't  seat  me  'way  back  by  the  door; 

He  knew  that  I  was  old  and  deaf,  as  well  as  old  and  poor, 

He  must  have  been  a  Christian,  for  he  led  me  boldly 

through 
The  long  aisle  of  that  pleasant  church,  to  find  a  pleasant 

pew. 

I  wished  you'd  heard  the  singin' — it  had  the  old-time 

ring— 
The  preacher  said  with  trumpet  voice,  "  Let  all  the  people 

sing;  " 
The    tune   was    "Coronation,"    and    the   music   upward 

rolled, 
Till  I  thought  I  heard  the  angels  striking  all  their  harps 

of  gold. 


300  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

My  deafness  seemed  to  melt  away,  my  spirit  caught  the 

fire, 
I  joined  my  feeble,  trembling  voice  with  that  melodious 

choir, 
And  sang,  as  in  my  youthful  days,  "  Let  angels  prostrate 

fall. 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem  and  crown  Him  Lord  of  all." 

I  tell  you,  wife,  it  did  me  good  to  sing  that  hymn  once 

more; 
I  felt"  like  some  wrecked  mariner  who  gets  a  glimpse  of 

shore; 
I  almost  want  to  lay  aside  this  weather-beaten  form 
And  anchor  in  the  blessed  port  forever  from  the  storm. 

The  preachin'!  well,  I  can't  just  tell  all  that  the  preacher 

said; 
J  know  it  wasn't  written,  I  know  it  wasn't  read; 
He  hadn't  time  to  read,  for  the  lightnin'  of  his  eye 
Went  passing  'long  from  pew  to  pew,  nor  passed  a  sinner 

by. 

The  sermon  wasn't  flowery,  'twas  simple  gospel  truth; 
It  fitted  poor  old  men  like  me,  it  fitted  hopeful  youth, 
"Twas  full  of  consolation  for  weary  hearts  that  bleed, 
'Twas  full  of  invitations  to  Christ — and  not  to  creed. 

The  preacher  made  sin  hideous  in  Gentiles  and  in  Jews; 
He  shot  the  golden  sentences  straight  at  the  finest  pews,. 
And,  though  I  can't  see  very  well,  I  saw  the  falling  tear 
That  told  me  hell  was  some  way  off,  and  heaven  very  near. 

How  swift  the  golden  moments  fled  within  that  holy 
place! 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  301 

Hosv  Drighily  beamed  the  light  of  heaven  from  every 

happy  face! 
Again  I  longed  for  that  sweet  time  when  friend  shall 

meet  with  friend, 
Where  congregations  ne'er  break  up  and  Sabbaths  have 

no  end. 

I  hope  to  meet  that  minister,  the  congregation,  too. 

In  the  dear  home  beyond  the  skies,  that  shines  from 

heaven's  blue; 
I  trust  that  I'll  remember,  beyond  life's  evening  gray, 
The  face  of  God's  dear  servant  who  preached  His  Word 

to-day. 

Dear  wife,  the  fight  will  soon  be  fought,  the  victory  be 

won. 
The  shining  goal  is  just  ahead,  the  race  is  nearly  run; 
O'er  the  river  we  are  nearin'  they  are  throngin'  to  the 

£hore, 
To  shout  our  safe  arrival  where  the  weary  weep  no  more, 

John  H.  Yates. 


WHAT  IS  HEAVEN.? 

Is  heaven  a  place  where  pearly  streams 

Glide  over  silver  sand; 
Like  childhood's  rosy,  dazzling  dreams 

Of  some  far  fairy  land? 
Is  heaven  a  clime  where  diamond  dews 

Glitter  on  fadeless  flowers; 
And  mirth  and  music  ring  aloud 

From  amaranthine  bowers? 


302  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Ah,  no,  not  such,  not  such  is  heaven! 

Surpassing  far  all  these; 
Such  cannot  be  the  guerdon  given 

Man's  wearied  soul  to  please. 
For  saint  and  sinner  here  below 

Such  vain  to  be,  have  proved: 
And  the  pure  spirit  will  despise 

Whate'er  the  sense  has  loved. 

There  we  shall  dwell  with  Sire  and  Son, 

And  with  the  Mother-Maid, 
And  with  the  Holy  Spirit  one, 

In  glory  like  arrayed. 
And  not  to  one  created  thing, 

Shall  our  embrace  be  given; 
For  all  our  joy  shall  be  in  God, 

For  only  God  is  Heaven, 

Philip  James  Bailey. 


PRAYER. 


More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats, 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer. 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend  ? 

For  so,  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  303 


POESY. 


There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some  pretence 
To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense; 
The  rudest  savage  roaming  through  the  wild, 
The  simplest  rustic  bending  o'er  his  child, 
The  infant  listening  to  the  warbling  bird. 
The  mother  smiling  at  its  half-formed  word; 
The  boy  uncaged,  who  tracks  the  fields  at  large, 
The  girl  turned  matron  to  her  babe-like  charge. 
The  freeman  casting  with  unpurchased  hand 
The  vote  that  shakes  the  turrets  of  the  land; 
The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted  chaii\ 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning  plain; 
The  hot-cheeked  reveler,  tossing  down  the  wine, 
To  join  the  chorus  "  Auld  lang  syne;" 
The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows  dim. 
While  Heaven  is  listening  to  her  evening  hymn; 
The  jeweled  beauty,  when  her  steps  draw  near 
The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chandelier; 
E'en  trembling  age,  when  spring's  renewing  air 
Waves  the  thin  ringlets  of  his  silvered  hair, — 
All,  all  are  glowing  with  the  inward  flame. 
Whose  wider  halo  wreathes  the  poet's  name. 
While,  unembalmed,  the  silent  dreamer  dies. 
His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and  sighs. 
Tf  glorious  visions,  born  for  all  mankind. 
The  bright  auroras  of  our  twilight  mind; 
If  fancies,  varying  as  the  shapes  that  lie 
Stained  on  the  windows  of  the  sunset  sky; 
If  hopes,  that  beckon  with  delusive  gleams, 
Till  the  eye  dances  in  the  void  of  dreams; 


304  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

If  passions,  following  with  the  winds  that  urge 
Earth's  wildest  wanderer  to  her  farthest  verge, — 
If  these  on  all  some  transient  hours  bestow 
Of  rapture  tingling  with  its  heroic  glow, 
Then  all  are  poets;  and,  If  earth  had  rolled 
Her  myriad  centuries,  and  her  doom  were  told, 
Each  moaning  billow  of  her  shoreless  wave    ^ 
Would  wail  its  requiem  o'er  a  poet's  grave. 

Oliver  W.  Holme& 


OF  BOOKS. 


As  there  might  be  a  meadow  fair  to  view, 
And  many  people  by  that  way  might  pass; 

And  one  might  see  the  grass,  and  one  the  dew^ 
And  one  alone  the  daisy  in  the  grass: 

So,  on  the  pages  of  a  written  book, 

Though  they  to  all  may  beauteously  shine. 

Yet  every  one  with  his  own  eyes  may  look, 
And  one  alone  the  writer's  thought  divine. 

As,  in  a  garden  husbanded  with  care, 

Among  the  blossoms  brilliant-hued  and  grand, 

May  chance  to  grow  a  wilding,  sweetly  fair. 

Which  was  not  planted  by  the  gardener's  hand. 

W^hich  he,  if  it  had  come  to  meet  his  eye. 
Had  rooted  up  and  cast  away,  no  doubt; 

idnd  yet,  some  gentle  nature  passing  by 
Might  single  that  frail  floweret  out: 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  ?0S 

So,  on  the  page  with  careful  labor  wrought, 

The  writer  on  one  purpose  all  intent, 
A  better  mind  may  find  a  better  thought — 

A  higher  meaning  than  was  ever  meant. 

But  whether  books  be  meadows  fresh  and  green, 
Or  whether  they  but  cultured  gardens  be, 

Whoever  rambles  through  them,  still  must  glean 
Only  such  flowers  as  he  has  eyes  to  see. 

Ada  Cranahan. 


PATIENCE. 

Were  there  no  night  we  could  not  read  the  stars. 
The  heavens  would  turn  into  a  blinding  glare;, 

Freedom  is  best  seen  through  the  prison-bars, 
And  rough  seas  make  the  haven  passing  fair. 

We  cannot  measure  joys  but  by  their  loss. 
When  blessings  fade  away  we  see  them  then 

Our  richest  clusters  grow  around  the  cross. 
And  in  the  night-time  angels  sing  to  men. 

The  seed  must  first  lie  buried  deep  in  earth, 

Before  the  lily  opens  to  the  sky; 
So  **  light  is  sown,"  and  gladness  has  its  birth 

In  the  dark  deeps  where  we  can  only  cry. 

**  Life  out  of  death  "  is  Heaven's  unwritten  law 
Nay,  it  is  written  in  a  myriad  forms; 
The  victor's  palm  grows  on  the  fields  of  war. 
And  strength  and  beauty  are  the  fruit  of  stormsi 


3o6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

Come,  then,  my  soul,  be  brave  to  do  and  bear; 

Thy  life  is  bruised  that  it  may  be  more  sweet; 
The  cross  will  soon  be  left,  the  crown  we'll  wear — ' 

Nay,  we  will  cast  it  at  our  Savior's  feet. 

And  up  among  the  glories  never  told, 
Sweeter  than  music  of  the  marriage  bell, 

Our  hands  will  strike  the  vibrant  harp  of  gold 
To  the  glad  song,  "  He  doeth  all  things  well." 

Hekbly  Burton. 


HASTE  NOT!    REST  NOT! 

Without  haste!  without  rest! 

Bind  the  motto  to  thy  breast; 

Bear  it  with  thee  as  a  spell; 

Storm  or  sunshine,  guard  it  well! 

Heed  not  flowers  that  'round  thee  bloom, 

Bear  it  onward  to  the  tomb! 

Haste  not!     Let  no  thoughtless  deed 
Mar  for  aye  the  spirit's  speed! 
Ponder  well,  and  know  the  right. 
Onward  then,  with  all  thy  might! 
Haste  not!  years  can  ne'er  atone 
For  one  reckless  action  done. 

Rest  not!     Life  is  sweeping  by, 
Go  and  dare,  before  you  die; 
Something  mighty  and  sublime 
Leave  behind  to  conquer  time! 
Glorious  'tis  to  live  for  aye. 
When  these  forms  have  passed  away. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  3°? 

Haste  not!  rest  not!  calmly  wait; 
Meekly  bear  the  storms  of  fate! 
Duty  be  thy  polar  ginde; — 
Do  the  right  whate'er  betide! 
Haste  not!  rest  not!  conflicts  past, 
God  shall  crown  thy  work  at  last. 

J,  W.  Von  Goethe. 


THE  MAID'S  LAMENT. 

I  loved  him  not;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I  checked  him  while  he  spoke;  yet  could  he  speak^ 

Alas!  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought. 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him:  I  now  would  give 

My  love  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he  found 

'Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death! 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me;  but  mine  returns. 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep. 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart:  for  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears! 
"Merciful  God! "  such  was  his  latest  prayer, 
''These  may  she  never  share!  " 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 


3oB  FA  VORITE  POEMS. 

Where  chiMren  spell  athwart  the  churchyard  gate 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  ye  be, 

And  O,  pray,  too,  for  me! 

W.  S.  Landor. 

IF  THAT  HIGH  WORLD. 

If  that  high  world,  which  lies  beyond 

Our  own,  surviving  love  endears; 
If  there  the  cherished  heart  be  fond. 

The  eye  the  same,  except  in  tears — 
How  welcome  those  untrodden  spheresi 

How  sweet  this  very  hour  to  die! 
To  soar  from  earth,  and  find  all  fears 

Lost  in  thy  light — Eternity! 

It  must  be  so:  'tis  not  for  self 

That  we  so  tremble  on  the  brink; 
And  striving  to  o'erleap  the  gulf, 

Yet  cling  to  being's  severing  link. 
O,  in  that  future  let  us  think 

To  hold  each  heart  the  heart  that  shares, 
With  them  the  immortals'  waters  drink 

And  soul  in  soul  grow  deathless  theirs! 

Lord  Byron. 

WHAT  IS  TIME? 

I  asked  an  aged  man,  a  man  of  cares, 
Wrinkled,  and  curved,  and  white  with  \iozxy  hairs; 
'*  Time  is  the  warp  of  life,"  he  said,  "  O  tell 
The  young,  the  fair,  the  gay-  to  weave  it  well!  " 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  y>9 

I  asked  the  ancient,  venerable  dead 
Sages  who  wrote,  and  warriors  who  bled: 
From  the  cold  grave  a  hollow  murmur  flowed, 
"Time  sowed  the  seeds  we  reap  in  this  abode! " 

I  asked  a  dying  sinner,  ere  the  stroke 
Of  ruthless  death  life's  ''golden  bowl  had  broke;** 
I  asked  him,  What  is  time?     "  Time,"  he  replied, 
**rve  lost  it:  Ah,  the  treasure! "  and  he  died! 

I  asked  the  golden  sun  and  silver  spheres, 
Those  bright  chronometers  of  days  and  years; 
They  answered,  "  Time  is  but  a  meteor's  glare," 
And  bade  me  for  Eternity  prepare. 

I  asked  the  seasons,  in  their  annual  round 
Which  beautify,  or  desolate  the  ground; 
And  they  replied  (no  oracle  more  wise), 
**  'Tis  folly's  blank,  and  wisdom's  highest  prize." 

I  asked  a  spirit  lost,  but,  O  the  shriek 

That  pierced  my  soul!     I  shudder  while  I  speaks 

It  cried,  "A  particle!  a  speck!  a  mite 

Of  endless  years,  duration  infinite!  " 

Of  things  inanimate,  my  dial  I 
Consulted,  and  it  made  me  this  reply, 
"  Time  is  the  season  fair  of  living  well 
The  path  to  glory,  or  the  path  to  hell." 

I  asked  my  Bible,  and  methinks  it  said, 
"  Thine  is  the  present  hour,  the  past  is  fiedj 
Live!  live  to-day!  to-morrow  never  yet 
On  any  human  being  rose  or  set!  " 


3 to  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

I  asked  old  father  Time  himself  at  last; 
But  in  a  moment  he  flew  swiftly  past; 
His  chariot  was  a  cloud,  the  viewless  wind 
His  noiseless  steeds,  that  left  no  trace  behind. 

I  asked  the  mighty  Angel,  who'  shall  stand 
One  foot  on  sea,  and  one  on  solid  land; 
"By  heaven's  great  King,  I  swear  the  mystery's  o'er! 
Time  was,"  he  cried  —  "but  Time  shall  be  no  more!' 

James  Marsden. 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

Within  this  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees, 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air, 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 
O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills. 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  further  and  the  streams  sang  low 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  mufiled  blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of  old. 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  31 1 

On  slumberous  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight: 
The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint; 

And,  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before — 

Silent  till  some  replying  wanderer  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay  within  the  elm's  tall  crest 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  the  unfledged  younjp 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung: 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 

The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near. 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 

An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year; 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn, 

To  warn  the  reapers  of  the  rosy  east — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty  and  forlorn. 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 

And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreamy  gloom; 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  nightj 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 


312  FAVORITE  I- OEMS. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 
And  where  the  woodbine  sheds  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch — 

Amid  all  this,  the  center  of  the  scene. 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 
Plied  her  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien 

Sat  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow.     He  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  with  her  the  ashen  crust; 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned^  and  she  gave  her  all; 

And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume — 
Re-gave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Re-gave  the  swords — but  not  the  hand  that  drew. 
And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow; 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true. 
Fell,  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 

JrA  last  the  thread  was  snapped — her  head  was  bowed, 
Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene: 

And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud — 
While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  Autumn  scene. 

T.  Buchanan  Reab. 


FAVORITE  POEMSX  31 J 


PICTURES   OF   MEMORY. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all. 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep — 
In  the  lap  of  that  dim  old  forest. 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep. 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there,  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
X  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 


3^4  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face; 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 

Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 

Alice  Gary. 


MAKIN'   AN    EDITOR   OUTEN    O'  HIM. 

"  Good  mornin',  sir,  Mr.  Printer;  how  is  your  body  to-day? 
I'm  glad  you're  to  home,  for  you  fellers  is  al'ays  a  runnin' 

away. 
Your  paper  last  week  wa'n't  so  spicy  nor  sharp  as  the  one 

week  before; 
But   I   s'pose  when  the  campaign  is  opened,  you'll   be 

whoopin'  it  up  to  'em  more. 
That  feller  that's  printin'  The  Smasher  is  goin'  for  you 

perty  smart; 
And  our  folks  said  this  mornin'  at  breakfast,  they  thought 

he  was  gettin'  the  start. 
But  I  hushed  'em  right  up  in  a  minute,  and  said  a  good 

word  for  you; 
I  told  'em  I  b'lieved  you  was  tryin'  to  do  just  as  well  as 

you  knew; 


FAVORITE  POEMS,  315 

And  I  told  'em  that  some  one  was  sayin',  and  whoever 

'twas  it  is  so, 
That  you  can't  expect  much  of  no  one  man,  nor  blame 

him  for  what  he  don't  know. 
But,  layin'  aside  pleasure  for  business,  I've  brought  yoa 

my  little  boy  Jim; 
And  I  thought  I  would  see  if  you  couldn't  make  an  editor 

outen  o'  him. 

"  My  family  stock  is  increasin',  while  other  folks  seen?:: 

to  run  short. 
I've  got  a  right  smart  of  a  family — it's  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sort: 
There's  Ichabod,  Isaac  and  Israel,  a  workin'  away  on  the 

farm, 
They  do  'bout  as  much  as  one  good  boy,  and  make  things 

go  off  like  a  charm. 
There's   Moses  and  Aaron  are  sly  ones,  and  slip  like  a 

couple  of  eels; 
But  they're  tol'able  steady  in  one  thing — they  al'ays  git 

round  to  their  meals. 
There's  Peter,  is  busy  inventin'  (though  what  he  invents  I 

can't  see). 
And    Joseph    is   studyin'   medicine  —  and    both   of   'em 

boardin'  with  me. 
There's  Abram  and  Albert  is  married,  each  workin'  my 

farm  for  himself, 
And  Sam  smashed  his  nose  at  a  shootin',  and  so  he  is  laid 

on  the  shelf. 
The  rest  of  the  boys  are  all  growin',  'cept  this  little  runt,. 

which  is  Jim, 
And  I  thought  that  perhaps  I'd  be  makin'  an  editor  out©nt& 

o'  him. 


3l6  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

"He   ain't   no   great   shakes   for   to   labor,  though   I've 

labored  with  him  a  good  deal, 
And  give  him  some  strappin'  good  arguments  I  know  he 

couldn't  help  but  to  feel; 
But  he's  built  out  of  second-growth  timber,  and  nothin* 

about  him  is  big, 
Exceptin'  his  appetite  only,  and  there  he's  as  good  as  a 

pig- 
I  keep  him  carryin'  luncheons,  and  fillin'  and  bringin'  the 

jugs, 
And  take  him  among  the  pertatoes,  and  set  him  to  pickin' 

the  bugs; 
And  then  there's  things  to  be  doin'  a  helpin'  the  womefi 

in-doors; 
There's  churnin'  and  washin'  of  dishes,  and  other  descrip' 

tions  of  chores; 
But  he  don't  take  to  nothin'  but  victuals,  and  he'll  nevei' 

be  much,  I'm  afraid, 
So  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  notion  to  lam  him  the 

editor's  trade. 
His  body's  too  small  for  a  farmer,  his  judgment  is  rather 

too  slim. 
But  I  thought  we  perhaps  could  be  makin'  an  editor 

outen  o'  him. 

"  It  ain't  much  to  get  up  a  paper,  it  wouldn't  take  him 

long  for  to  learn; 
t-e  could  feed  the  machine,  I'm   thinkin',  with  a  good 

strappin'  fellow^  to  turn. 
And  things  that  was  once  hard  in  doin'  is  easy  enough 

now  to  do; 
Just  keep  your  eye  on  your  machinery,  and  crack  your 

arrangements  right  through. 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  317 

1  used  for  to  wonder  at  readin',  and  where  it  was  got  up, 
and  how; 

But  'tis  most  of  it  made  by  machinery — I  can  see  it  all 
plain  enough  now. 

And  poetry,  too,  is  constructed  by  machines  of  different 
designs. 

Each  one  with  a  gauge  and  a  chopper,  to  see  to  the 
length  of  the  lines; 

And  I  hear  a  New  York  clairvoyant  is  runnin'  one  sleekef 
than  grease, 

And  a.-rentin'  her  heaven-born  productions  at  a  couple 
of  dollars  apiece; 

An'  since  the  whole  trade  has  growed  easy,  'twould  be 
easy  enough,  I've  a  whim. 

If  you  was  agreed,  to  be  makin'  an  editor  outen  o'  Jim." 

The  editor  sat  in  his  sanctum  and  looked  the  old  man  in 
the  eye. 

Then  glanced  at  the  grinning  young  hopeful,  and  mourn- 
fully made  his  reply: 

"  Is  your  son  a  small  unbound  edition  of  Moses  and  Sol- 
omon both  ? 

Can  he  compass  his  spirit  with  meekness,  and  strangle  a 
natural  oath  ? 

Can  he  leave  all  his  wrongs  to  the  future,  and  carry  his 
heart  in  his  cheek  ? 

Can  he  do  an  hour's  work  in  a  minute,  and  live  on  a  six- 
pence a  week  ? 

Can  he  courteously  talk  to  an  equal,  and  browbeat  an 
impudent  dunce  ? 

Can  he  keep  things  in  apple-pie  order,  and  do  half-a- 
dozen  at  once  ? 

Can  he  press  all  the  springs  of  knowledge  with  quick 
and  reliable  touch, 


3l8  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

And   be  sure  that  he  knows  how  much  to  know^  and 

knows  how  to  not  know  too  much  ? 
Does  he  know  how  to  spur  up  his  virtue,  and  put  a  check » 

rein  on  his  pride  ? 
Can  he  carry  a  gentleman's  manners  within  a  rhinoceros' 

hide? 
Can  he  know  all,  and  do  all,  and  be  all,  with  cheerful 

ness,  courage,  and  vim  ? 
If  so,  we  perhaps  can  be  '  makin'  an  editor  outen  o'  him.' " 

The  farmer  stood  curiously  listening,  while  wonder  his 

visage  o'erspread. 
And  he  said:  "Jim,  I  guess  we'll  be  goin';  he's  probably 

out  of  his  head."  Will  M.  Carleton. 


WHEN    COLDNESS    WRAPS    THIS    SUFFERINCV 

CLAY. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, 

Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darkened  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way.? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecayed, 
A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 

All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  displayed^ 
Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall: 


FAVORITE  POEMS.  319- 

Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds. 

So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds. 

And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peopled  earth, 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back; 
And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had  birth. 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes. 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 
While  sun  is  quenched  or  system  breaks. 

Fixed  in  its  own  eteqaity. 

Above,  or  love,  hope,  hate,  or  fear, 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure; 
An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year; 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wing, 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts  shall  fljr; 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 

Lord  Byron, 


THE  GERMAN  WATCHMAN'S  SONG. 

Among  the  Watchmen  in  Germany,  a  sjarular  costom  prevails,  of  chanting 
dsvotioasuhyTuns  as  well  as  songs  of  a  national  or  amusing  character,  during  the 
night.  Of  the  former  description  of  pieces,  the  following  i.s  a  specimen,  the  several 
staazas  bciog  ::iiuited  i&  the  hours  of  the  night  are  saocessively  announced. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell  — 
Ten  now  strikes  on  the  belfry  bell! 
Ten  are  the  holy  commandments  given 
To  man  below,  from  God  in  heaven. 


320  FAVORITE  POEMS, 

CHORUS. 

Human  watch  from  harm  can't  ward  us^ 
God  will  watch  and  God  will  guard  usj 
He,  through  his  eternal  might, 
Grant  us  all  a  blessed  night. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  teii — 
Eleven  sounds  on  the  belfry  bell! 
Eleven  apostles  of  holy  mind, 
Taught  the  gospel  to  mankind. 

Human  watch,  etc 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell— 
Twelve  resounds  from  the  belfry  bell! 
Twelve  disciples  to  Jesus  came. 
Who  suffered  rebuke  for  their  Savior's  naraKS, 
Human  watch,  etc. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell— 
One  has  pealed  on  the  belfry  bell! 
One  God  above,  one  Lord  indeed. 
Who  bears  us  forth  in  hour  of  need. 
Human  watch," etc. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  teiL 
Two  resounds  from  the  belfry  bell! 
Two  paths  before  mankind  are  free, 
Neighbors  choose  the  best  for  thee. 
Human  watch,  etc. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell-^ 
Three  now  sounds  on  the  belfry  beli! 
Threefold  reigns  the  Heavenly  Host, 
Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost! 

Human  watch,  etc» 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


i 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


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